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THE    POEMS   AND    PLAYS    OF 
JOHN    MASEFIELD 

POEMS 


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THE 

POEMS    AND    PLAYS    OF 
JOHN   MASEFIELD 


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POEMS 


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THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY 
1920 

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COPYRIGHT  1914 

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COPYRIGHT,  1912,  1913,  1914 

BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT,  1911,  1913,  1917,  1918 

BY  JOHN  MASEFIELD 


Collected  Edition.    Set  up  and  electrotyped.    Published  Novemober,  1918. 


5014931 


PREFACE 

I  DO  not  remember  writing  verses  in  my  childhood;  I  made 
many  but  did  not  write  them  down.  I  remember  writing  two 
poems  when  I  was  nine  years  and  nine  months  old,  one  about 
a  pony  called  Gypsy,  the  other  about  a  Red  Indian.  Two  or 
three  years  later  I  wrote  a  few  more  poems,  a  birthday  poem 
to  one  of  my  brothers,  a  poem  about  a  horse,  a  satire  on  a  clergy- 
man, and  some  fragments  in  imitation  of  Sir  Walter  Scott. 

Early  verses  are  nearly  always  reflections  from  early  reading. 
I  remember  my  early  reading  fairly  clearly.  The  first  poems 
which  moved  me  were  these: 

1.  A  poem  about  An  Old  White  Horse,  in  some  way  con- 
nected with  the  loth  Hussars  in  the  Soudan  Campaign.    This 
poem  appeared  in  a  daily  paper,  perhaps  The  Standard,  per- 
haps  The  Daily   Telegraph,  during  or  just  after,  the  Soudan 
Campaign. 

2.  A  poem  in  Good  Words  --  ,  A  Friend,  by  Ade- 
line Sargent.    I  liked  this  poem  quite  as  much  for  its  little  en- 
graved illustrations  as  for  its  words. 

3  .  The  poems  of  Longfellow,  especially  Hiawatha. 

4.  The  Ingoldsby  Legends. 

5.  The  Wild  Swan  by  Tennyson,  "/  remember,  I  remember," 
by  Thomas  Hood.    I  had  to  learn  these  by  heart  for  my  Mother. 
I  thought  them  beautiful  at  the  time  and  think  so  still. 

6.  Du  Maurier's  Ballad  of  Camelot,  in  Punch  for  (I  think) 
1864.    I  did  not  understand  the  words  of  this  poem,  but  the  pre- 
Raphaelite  engravings  which  illustrated  it,  moved  me  deeply. 

I  do  not  remember  any  other  poems  which  gave  me  pleasure 


1 


PREFACE 

during  my  childhood,  except  one  or  two  of  the  lyrics  of  William 
Allingham. 

When  I  was  ten  years  old,  I  began  to  read  Sir  Walter  Scott's 
poems,  Percy's  Reliques  of  Ancient  Poetry,  and  a  little  red  An- 
thology of  English  Poetry  which  contained  some  good  poems. 
I  read  most  of  these  poems  many  times  with  enjoyment.  At 
the  age  of  14,  I  began  to  read  Macaulay's  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome, 
which  put  an  end  to  my  liking  for  Scott,  as  they  were  more 
modern  and  more  direct.  I  wrote  some  imitations  of  the  Lays, 
they  were  then  my  favourite  poems,  but  I  had  a  very  great  fond- 
ness for  two  other  poems,  The  Braes  of  Yarrow,  by  Wm.  Ham- 
ilton of  Blairgowrie,  and  The  Voyage  of  Maeldune,  by  Tenny- 
son. At  this  time  I  had  read  none  of  the  great  poems  of  the 
English  tongue,  except  two  or  three  lyrics  by  Shakespeare 
"When  Dick  the  Shepherd,  etc.,"  and  Milton's  U Allegro  and 
//  Penseroso.  As  I  was  then  being  trained  for  a  sea  life  I  had 
little  opportunity  for  reading  poetry. 

When  I  was  16,  I  wrote  some  poems  about  life  at  sea.  Two 
of  these  were  short  poems,  one  describing  a  man  falling  from 
a  loft,  and  one,  the  miseries  of  what  was  then  (nearly  thirty 
years  ago)  a  harsh  profession.  I  remember  writing  one  long 
poem,  describing  the  incidents  of  a  voyage,  but  this  was  never 
finished.  I  read  little  and  wrote  little  between  the  ages  of  14 
and  18. 

I  did  not  begin  to  read  poetry  with  passion  and  system  until 
1896.  I  was  living  then  in  Yonkers,  N.  Y.  (at  8  Maple  Street), 
Chaucer  was  the  poet,  and  the  Parliament  of  Fowls  the  poem, 
of  my  conversion.  I  read  the  Parliament  all  through  one  Sun- 
day afternoon,  with  the  feeling  that  I  had  been  kept  out  of  my 
inheritance  and  had  then  suddenly  entered  upon  it,  and  had 
found  it  a  new  world  of  wonder  and  delight.  I  had  never  real- 
ized, until  then,  what  poetry  could  be.  After  that  Sunday  after- 

[vi] 


PREFACE 

noon,  I  read  many  poets  (Chaucer,  Keats,  Shelley,  Milton  and 
Shakespeare,  more  than  others)  and  wrote  many  imitations  of 
them.  About  a  year  later,  when  I  was  living  in  London,  I  wrote 
two  or  three  of  the  verses  now  printed  in  Salt  Water  Ballads. 

For  the  next  few  years  I  wrote  little.  I  wrote  the  rest  of  the 
verses  in  Salt  Water  Ballads  in  about  six  weeks,  at  Christmas 
time,  1901,  in  a  London  lodging.  A  few  poems  and  ballads  were 
printed  in  1903-4.  After  these,  I  published  no  more  verses  for 
eight  years,  except  some  choruses  in  a  play  and  perhaps  half 
a  dozen  contributions  to  magazines  and  journals. 

In  May  and  June,  1911,  I  wrote  the  narrative,  The  Ever- 
lasting Mercy,  at  Great  Hampden,  where  I  was  then  staying. 
I  wished  to  write  of  conversion,  of  a  turbulent  man  suddenly 
made  gentle.  The  scene  of  the  poem  is  laid  at  a  place  called 
Ledbury,  in  Herefordshire,  in  the  Western  Midlands.  When 
I  had  finished  the  story,  I  felt  that  I  ought  to  write  something 
unlike  it,  that  as  I  had  shewn  one  thing,  which  often  happens 
in  life,  the  seemingly  unworthy  man  made  happy,  for  no  ap- 
parent reason,  so  I  ought  to  write  the  opposite,  the  seemingly 
worthy  woman  made  heartbroken,  for  no  apparent  reason.  I  be- 
gan the  second  tale,  The  Widow  in  the  Bye  Street,  at  Capel 
Curig  in  North  Wales,  in  June,  and  finished  it  at  Great  Hamp- 
den in  July,  1911.  Each  of  these  two  tales  was  written  in  three 
weeks  and  three  days.  The  other  poems,  Ships,  and  Biography 
were  written  later  in  the  same  Summer  in  the  North  of  Ireland. 

In  1912,  I  wrote  the  stories  Dauber  and  The  Daffodil  Fields, 
mostly  at  Great  Hampden.  The  character  of  Dauber  was 
partly  suggested  by  a  man  once  known  to  me,  who  fell  from  the 
lower  topgallant  yard  of  a  ship,  called  (if  I  remember  rightly) 
the  Westlands,  and  was  killed.  This  was  many  years  ago.  He 
would  not  have  become  a  good  painter,  but  he  had  courage  and 
the  will  to  succeed,  and  these  things  are  in  themselves  a  kind  of 

[vii] 


PREFACE 

genius.  I  found  the  plot  of  The  Daffodil  Fields  story  in  a  foot- 
note to  Sir  W.  Mackenzie's  Travels  in  Iceland.  It  is  there 
stated  that  the  events  described  in  the  tale  happened  in  Ice- 
land in  the  Eleventh  Century. 

Early  in  1913,  I  wrote  the  poem,  The  Wanderer,  about  a  very 
beautiful  but  unlucky  ship  which  I  had  seen  years  before  in  the 
Mersey.  The  Wanderer  stays  in  my  mind  as  one  of  the  love- 
liest things  ever  made  by  men.  She  is  still  freshly  remembered 
in  Liverpool,  and  many  men  who  sailed  in  her  must  be  still  alive. 
She  was  run  down  and  sunk  (I  believe  in  daylight)  in  the  Elbe 
near  Hamburg  about  1897.  After  The  Wanderer  (in  1913)  I 
wrote  The  River,  a  tale  current  among  sailors  as  having  happened 
in  the  Hugli  River,  not  far  from  Calcutta,  at  some  unknown 
time,  not  very  long  ago.  I  have  had  versions  of  the  tale  from 
three  or  four  sailors,  all  agreeing,  that  the  ship  struck,  had  her 
fo'csle  jammed,  and  was  held  on  the  quicksand  for  some  time, 
but  at  last  sank,  with  all  her  forward  hands  except  one  man 
who  dived  through  a  manhole  into  the  hold,  as  I  have  described, 
and  by  luck  or  Fate  reached  the  fore  hatch  and  escaped.  In 
this  year  I  wrote  a  draft  of  the  story  of  Juan  Manuel  Rosas, 
the  dictator  of  the  Argentine. 

In  1914,  before  the  war  began,  I  wrote  two  plays  in  verse. 
When  the  war  began,  I  wrote  some  verses,  called  August,  1914, 
which  at  the  time  I  thought  of  calling  Lollingdon  Hill,  from 
the  little  chalk  hill  on  which  they  were  written.  Some  other 
verses  were  written  in  the  first  months  of  the  war,  including 
some  of  the  sonnets;  but  that  was  the  end  of  my  verse-writing. 
Perhaps,  when  the  war  is  over  and  the  mess  of  the  war  is  cleaned 
up  and  the  world  is  at  some  sort  of  peace,  there  may  be  leisure 
and  feeling  for  verse-making.  One  may  go  back  to  that  life  in 
the  mind,  in  which  the  eyes  of  the  mind  see  butterflies  and 
petals  of  blossoms  blowing  from  the  unseen  world  of  beauty 

[viii  1 


PREFACE 

into  this  world.  In  that  life,  if  it  comes  again,  one  may  not  be 
too  old  to  look  towards  that  world  of  beauty,  and  to  see  it  and 
tell  of  it. 

There  is  continuall  Spring,  and  harvest  there 
Continuall,  both  meeting  at  one  time  .  .  . 

And  though,  before  this  war,  when  I  was  writing,  I  saw  little 
enough  of  that  land,  life  is  kind  and  wise  and  generous,  and  per- 
haps, in  that  new  time,  I  may  see  more,  and  be  able  to  tell  more, 
and  know  in  fuller  measure  what  the  poets  of  my  race  have 
known,  about  that  world  and  those  people  existing  forever  over 
in  England,  the  images  of  what  England  and  the  English  may 
become,  or  spiritually  are.  Chaucer  and  Shakespeare,  some 
lines  of  Gray,  of  Keats,  of  Wordsworth  and  of  William  Morris, 
the  depth,  force,  beauty  and  tenderness  of  the  English  mind, 
are  inspiration  enough,  and  school  enough  and  star  enough  to 
urge  and  guide  in  any  night  of  the  soul,  however  wayless  from 
our  blindness  or  black  from  our  passions  and  our  follies. 

JOHN  MASEFIELD. 


CONTENTS 

SALT-WATER  BALLADS 

PAGE 

A  CONSECRATION 3 

THE  YARN  OF  THE  "Locn  ACHRAY" 4 

SING  A  SONG  O'  SHIPWRECK 7 

BURIAL  PARTY 9 

BILL 10 

FEVER  SHIP n 

FEVER-CHILLS 1 1 

ONE  OF  THE  BO'SUN'S  YARNS 12 

HELL'S  PAVEMENT 15 

SEA-CHANGE 16 

HARBOUR-BAR 17 

THE  TURN  OF  THE  TIDE 18 

ONE  OF  WALLY'S  YARNS 19 

A  VALEDICTION  (LIVERPOOL  DOCKS) 20 

A  NIGHT  AT  DAGO  TOM'S 21 

PORT  OF  MANY  SHIPS 22 

CAPE  HORN  GOSPEL — 1 23 

CAPE  HORN  GOSPEL — II 25 

MOTHER  CAREY 26 

EVENING — REGATTA  DAY 27 

A  VALEDICTION 28 

A  PIER-HEAD  CHORUS 29 

THE  GOLDEN  CITY  OF  ST.  MARY 30 

TRADE  WINDS 30 

SEA-FEVER 31 

A  WANDERER'S  SONG 32 

CARDIGAN  BAY 32 

CHRISTMAS  EVE  AT  SEA 33 

A  BALLAD  OF  CAPE  ST.  VINCENT 34 

THE  TARRY  BUCCANEER 35 

A  BALLAD  OF  JOHN  SILVER 36 

LYRICS  FROM  "THE  BUCCANEER" 38 

D'AVALOS'  PRAYER 39 

[xi] 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  WEST  WIND 40 

THE  GALLEY-ROWERS 41 

VAGABOND 42 

VISION 43 

SPUNYARN 44 

PERSONAL 45 

ON  MALVERN  HILL 46 

ON  EASTNOR  KNOLL 48 

" REST  HER  SOUL,  SHE'S  DEAD" 48 

"ALL  YE  THAT  PASS  BY" 49 

IN  MEMORY  OF  A.  P.  R 50 

TO-MORROW 50 

CAVALIER 51 

A  SONG  AT  PARTING 52 

GLOSSARY 53 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 
(From  "The  Story  of  a  Round  House") 

BIOGRAPHY 59 

SHIPS 68 

TRUTH 71 

THEY  CLOSED  HER  EYES 72 

THE  HARP 76 

SONNET 77 

SONNET  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  His  WIFE 77 

SONG 78 

THE  BALLAD  OF  SIR  BORS 79 

SPANISH  WATERS 80 

CARGOES 82 

CAPTAIN  STRATTON'S  FANCY 83 

AN  OLD  SONG  RE-SUNG 84 

ST.  MARY'S  BELLS 85 

LONDON  TOWN 86 

[tfl] 


PAGE 

THE  EMIGRANT 87 

PORT  OF  HOLY  PETER 88 

BEAUTY 89 

THE  SEEKERS 90 

PRAYER 91 

DAWN 92 

LAUGH  AND  BE  MERRY 92 

JUNE  TWILIGHT 93 

ROADWAYS 94 

MIDSUMMER  NIGHT 95 

THE  HARPER'S  SONG 96 

THE  GENTLE  LADY • 97 

THE  DEAD  KNIGHT 98 

SORROW  OF  MYDATH 99 

TWILIGHT 99 

INVOCATION 100 

POSTED  AS  MISSING 100 

A  CREED 101 

WHEN  BONY  DEATH 102 

HER  HEART 103 

BEING  HER  FRIEND 104 

FRAGMENTS 104 

BORN  FOR  NOUGHT  ELSE 107 

TEWKESBURY  ROAD 108 

THE  DEATH  ROOMS 109 

IGNORANCE 109 

THE  WATCH  IN  THE  WOODS no 

C.  L.  M in 

WASTE 113 

THIRD  MATE 113 

THE  WILD  DUCK 114 

CHRISTMAS,  1903 115 

THE  WORD.  .  .116 


I  xiii  ] 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 121 

THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 179 

DAUBER 251 

EXPLANATIONS  OF  SOME  OF  THE  SEA  TERMS  USED  IN  THE  POEM 317 

THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS. .  .323 


SONNETS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

SONNETS 405 

THE  MADMAN'S  SONG .  »» 434 

THE  "WANDERER" 436 

AUGUST,  1914 446 

THE  RIVER 449 

WATCHING  BY  A  SICK-BED 463 

LOLLINGDON  DOWNS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

LOLLINGDON  DOWNS 467 

THE  BLACKSMITH 477 

THE  FRONTIER 481 

MIDNIGHT 487 

ROSAS 497 


[xiv] 


SALT-WATER  BALLADS 


Some  of  this  book  was  written  in  my  boyhood,  all  of  it 
in  my  youth;  it  is  now  re-issued,  much  as  it  was  when 
first  published  nearly  eleven  years  ago.  J.  M. 

9*A  June,  1913 


A  CONSECRATION 

Not  of  the  princes  and  prelates  with  periwigged  charioteers 
Riding  triumphantly  laurelled  to  lap  the  fat  of  the  years, — 
Rather  the  scorned — the  rejected — the  men  hemmed  in  with  the 
spears; 

The  men  of  the  tattered  battalion  which  fights  till  it  dies, 

Dazed  with  the  dust  of  the  battle,  the  din  and  the  cries, 

The  men  with  the  broken  heads  and  the  blood  running  into  their  eyes. 

Not  the  be-medalled  Commander,  beloved  of  the  throne, 
Riding  cock-horse  to  parade  when  the  bugles  are  blown, 
But  the  lads  who  carried  the  koppie  and  cannot  be  known. 

Not  the  ruler  for  me,  but  the  ranker,  the  tramp  of  the  road, 

The  slave  with  the  sack  on  his  shoulders  pricked  on  with  the  goad, 

The  man  with  too  weighty  a  burden,  too  weary  a  load. 

The  sailor,  the  stoker  of  steamers,  the  man  with  the  clout, 

The  chantyman  bent  at  the  halliards  putting  a  tune  to  the  shout, 

The  drowsy  man  at  the  wheel  and  the  tired  lookout. 

Others  may  sing  of  the  wine  and  the  wealth  and  the  mink, 

The  portly  presence  of  potentates  goodly  in  girth; — 

Mine  be  the  dirt  and  the  dross,  the  dust  and  scum  of  the  earth! 

THEIRS  be  the  music,  the  colour,  the  glory,  the  gold; 
Mine  be  a  handful  of  ashes,  a  mouthful  of  mould. 
Of  the  maimed,  of  the  halt  and  the  blind  in  the  rain  and  the  cold — 
Of  these  shall  my  songs  be  fashioned,  my  tales  be  told.        AMEN. 

[3] 


THE  YARN  OF  THE  "LOCH  ACHRAY" 

The  "Loch  Achray"  was  a  clipper  tall 
With  seven-and-twenty  hands  in  all. 
Twenty  to  hand  and  reef  and  haul, 
A  skipper  to  sail  and  mates  to  bawl 
"  Tally  on  to  the  tackle-fall, 
Heave  now  'n'  start  her,  heave  'n*  pawl!' 
Hear  the  yarn  of  a  sailor, 
An  old  yarn  learned  at  sea. 

Her  crew  were  shipped  and  they  said  "  Farewell, 

So-long,  my  Tottie,  my  lovely  gell; 

We  sail  to-day  if  we  fetch  to  hell, 

It's  time  we  tackled  the  wheel  a  spell." 
Hear  the  yarn  of  sailor, 
An  old  yarn  learned  at  sea. 

The  dockside  loafers  talked  on  the  quay 
The  day  that  she  towed  down  to  sea: 
"  Lord,  what  a  handsome  ship  she  be! 
Cheer  her,  sonny  boys,  three  times  three! " 
And  the  dockside  loafers  gave  her  a  shout 
As  the  red-funnelled  tug-boat  towed  her  out; 
They  gave  her  a  cheer  as  the  custom  is, 
And  the  crew  yelled  "Take  our  loves  to  Liz — 
Three  cheers,  bullies,  for  old  Pier  Head 
'N'  the  bloody  stay-at-homes!"  they  said. 
Hear  the  yarn  of  a  sailor, 
An  old  yarn  learned  at  sea. 
(4) 


THE  YARN  OF  THE  "LOCH  ACHRAY" 

In  the  grey  of  the  coming  on  of  night 
She  dropped  the  tug  at  the  Tuskar  Light, 
'N'  the  topsails  went  to  the  topmast  head 
To  a  chorus  that  fairly  awoke  the  dead. 
She  trimmed  her  yards  and  slanted  South 
With  her  royals  set  and  a  bone  in  her  mouth. 
Hear  the  yarn  of  a  sailor, 
An  old  yarn  learned  at  sea. 

She  crossed  the  Line  and  all  went  well, 
They  ate,  they  slept,  and  they  struck  the  bell 
And  I  give  you  a  gospel  truth  when  I  state 
The  crowd  didn't  find  any  fault  with  the  Mate, 
But  one  night  off  the  River  Plate. 
Hear  the  yarn  of  a  sailor, 
An  old  yarn  learned  at  sea. 

It  freshened  up  till  it  blew  like  thunder 
And  burrowed  her  deep  lee-scuppers  under. 
The  old  man  said,  "I  mean  to  hang  on 
Till  her  canvas  busts  or  her  sticks  are  gone" — 
Which  the  blushing  looney  did,  till  at  last 
Overboard  went  her  mizzen-mast. 
Hear  the  yarn  of  a  sailor, 
An  old  yarn  learned  at  sea. 

Then  a  fierce  squall  struck  the  "Loch  Achray" 
And  bowed  her  down  to  her  water-way; 
Her  main-shrouds  gave  and  her  forestay, 
And  a  green  sea  carried  her  wheel  away; 
(Si 


SALT-WATER  BALLADS 

Ere  the  watch  below  had  time  to  dress. 

She  was  cluttered  up  in  a  blushing  mess 
Hear  the  yarn  of  a  sailor, 
An  old  yarn  learned  at  sea. 

She  couldn't  lay-to  nor  yet  pay-off, 
And  she  got  swept  clean  in  the  bloody  trough; 
Her  masts  were  gone,  and  afore  you  knowed 
She  filled  by  the  head  and  down  she  goed. 
Her  crew  made  seven-and-twenty  dishes 
For  the  big  jack-sharks  and  the  little  fishes, 
And  over  their  bones  the  water  swishes. 
Hear  the  yarn  of  a  sailor, 
An  old  yarn  learned  at  sea. 

The  wives  and  girls  they  watch  in  the  rain 
For  a  ship  as  won't  come  home  again. 
"I  reckon  it's  them  head-winds,"  they  say, 
"She'll  be  home  to-morrow,  if  not  to-day. 
I'll  just  nip  home  'n*  I'll  air  the  sheets 
'N'  buy  the  fixins  'n'  cook  the  meats 
As  my  man  likes  'n'  as  my  man  eats." 

So  home  they  goes  by  the  windy  streets, 
Thinking  their  men  are  homeward  bound 
With  anchors  hungry  for  English  ground, 
And  the  bloody  fun  of  it  is,  they're  drowned! 
Hear  the  yarn  of  a  sailor, 
An  old  yarn  learned  at  sea. 


[61 


SING  A  SONG  O'  SHIPWRECK 

He  lolled  on  a  bollard,  a  sun-burned  son  of  the  sea, 
With  ear-rings  of  brass  and  a  jumper  of  dungaree, 
"'N'  many  a  queer  lash-up  have  I  seen,"  says  he. 

"  But  the  toughest  hooray  o'  the  racket,"  he  says,  "  I'll  be  sworn, 
'N'  the  roughest  traverse  I  worked  since  the  day  I  was  born, 
Was  a  packet  o'  Sailor's  Delight  as  I  scoffed  in  the  seas  o'  the 
Horn. 

"  All  day  long  in  the  calm  she  had  rolled  to  the  swell, 

Rolling  through  fifty  degrees  till  she  clattered  her  bell: 

'N'  then  came  snow,  'n'  a  squall,  'n'  a  wind  was  colder  'n  hell. 

"It  blew  like  the  Bull  of  Barney,  a  beast  of  a  breeze, 
'N'  over  the  rail  come  the  cold  green  lollopin'  seas, 
'N'  she  went  ashore  at  the  dawn  on  the  Ramirez. 

"She  was  settlin'  down  by  the  stern  when  I  got  to  the  deck, 
Her  waist  was  a  smother  o'  sea  as  was  up  to  your  neck, 
'N'  her  masts  were  gone,  'n'  her  rails,  'n'  she  was  a  wreck. 

"We  rigged  up  a  tackle,  a  purchase,  a  sort  of  a  shift, 

To  hoist  the  boats  off  o'  the  deck-house  and  get  them  adrift, 

When  her  stern  gives  a  sickenin'  settle,  her  bows  give  a  lift, 

"'N'  comes  a  crash  of  green  water  as  sets  me  afloat 
With  freezing  fingers  clutching  the  keel  of  a  boat — 
The  bottom-up  whaler — 'n'  that  was  the  juice  of  a  note. 


SALT-WATER  BALLADS 

"Well,  I  clambers  acrost  o'  the  keel  'n'  I  gets  me  secured, 
When  I  sees  a  face  in  the  white  o'  the  smother  to  looard, 
So  I  gives  'im  a  'and,  'n'  be  shot  if  it  wasn't  the  stooard! 


"So  he  climbs  up  forrard  o'  me,  'n'  'thanky,'  a'  says, 
N'  we  sits  'n'  shivers  'n'  freeze  to  the  bone  wi'  the  sprays, 
N'  /  sings  'Abel  Brown,'  'n'  the  stooard  he  prays. 


'N' 

»TVT» 


"Wi*  never  a  dollop  to  sup  nor  a  morsel  to  bite, 

The  lips  of  us  blue  with  the  cold  'n'  the  heads  of  us  light, 

Adrift  in  a  Cape  Horn  sea  for  a  day  'n'  a  night. 

"'N'  then  the  stooard  goes  dotty  'n'  puts  a  tune  to  his  lip, 

'N'  moans  about  Love  like  a  dern  old  hen  wi'  the  pip — 

(I  sets  no  store  upon  stooards — they  ain't  no  use  on  a  ship). 

"'N'  'mother,'  the  looney  cackles,  'come'n'  put  Willy  to  bed!' 
So  I  says  'Dry  up,  or  I'll  fetch  you  a  crack  o'  the  head  '; 
'The  kettle's  a-bilin','  he  answers,  *  'n'  I'll  go  butter  the  bread.' 

"'N'  he  falls  to  singin'  some  slush  about  clinkin'  a  can, 

'N'  at  last  he  dies,  so  he  does,  'n'  I  tells  you,  Jan, 

I  was  glad  when  he  did,  for  he  weren't  no  fun  for  a  man. 

"So  he  falls  forrard,  he  does,  'n'  he  closes  his  eye, 

'N'  quiet  he  lays  'n'  quiet  I  leaves  him  lie, 

'N'  I  was  alone  with  his  corp,  'n'  the  cold  green  sea  and  the  sky. 

"  'N'  then  I  dithers,  I  guess,  for  the  next  as  I  knew 
Was  the  voice  of  a  mate  as  was  sayin'  to  one  of  the  crew, 
'Easy,  my  son,  wi'  the  brandy,  be  shot  if  he  ain't  comin'-to! " 

[81 


BURIAL  PARTY 

"He's  deader  'n  nails,"  the  fo'c's'le  said,  "'n'  gone  to  his  long 

sleep;" 
"'N'  about  his  corp,"  said  Tom  to  Dan,  "d'ye  think  his  corp'll 

keep 
Till  the  day's  done,  'n'  the  work's  through,  'n'  the  ebb's  upon 

the  neap?" 

"He's  deader  'n  nails,"   said   Dan  to  Tom,  "'n'  I  wish  his 

sperrit  j'y; 

He  spat  straight  'n'  he  steered  true,  but  listen  to  me,  say  I, 
Take  'n'  cover  'n'  bury  him  now,  'n'  I'll  take  'n'  tell  you  why. 

"It's  a  rummy  rig  of  a  guffy's  yarn,  'n'  the  juice  of  a  rummy 

note, 

But  if  you  buries  a  corp  at  night,  it  takes  'n'  keeps  afloat, 
For  its  bloody  soul's  afraid  o'  the  dark  'n'  sticks  within  the 

throat. 

"'N'  all  the  night  till  the  grey  o'  the  dawn  the  dead  'un  has 

to  swim 

With  a  blue  'n'  beastly  Will  o'  the  Wisp  a-burnin'  over  him, 
With  a  herring,  maybe,  a-scoffin'  a  toe  or  a  shark  a-chewin' 

a  limb. 

"'N'  all  the  night  the  shiverin'  corp  it  has  to  swim  the  sea, 
With  its  shudderin'  soul  inside  the  throat  (where  a  soul's  no 

right  to  be), 
Till  the  sky's  grey  'n'  the  dawn's  clear,  'n'  then  the  sperrit's 

free. 


SALT-WATER  BALLADS 

"Now  Joe  was  a  man  was  right  as  rain.    I'm  sort  of  sore  for 

Joe. 

'N'  if  we  bury  him  durin'  the  day,  his  soul  can  take  'n'  go; 
So  we'll  dump  his  corp  when  the  bell  strikes  'n'  we  can  get  below. 

"I'd  fairly  hate  for  him  to  swim  in  a  blue  'n'  beastly  light, 
With  his  shudderin*  soul  inside  of  him  a-feelin'  the  fishes  bite, 
So  over  he  goes  at  noon,  say  I,  'n'  he  shall  sleep  to-night." 


BILL 

He  lay  dead  on  the  cluttered  deck  and  stared  at  the  cold  skies, 
With  never  a  friend  to  mourn  for  him  nor  a  hand  to  close  his 

eyes: 
"Bill,  he's  dead,"  was  all  they  said;  "he's  dead,  'n'  there  he 

lies." 

The  mate  came  forrard  at  seven  bells  and  spat  across  the  rail: 
"Just  lash  him  up  wi'  some  holystone  in  a  clout  o'  rotten  sail, 
'N',  rot  ye,  get  a  gait  on  ye,  ye' re  slower'n  a  bloody  snail!" 

When  the  rising  moon  was  a  copper  disc  and  the  sea  was  a 
strip  of  steel, 

We  dumped  him  down  to  the  swaying  weeds  ten  fathom  be- 
neath the  keel. 

"It's  rough  about  Bill,"  the  fo'c's'le  said,  "we'll  have  to  stand 
his  wheel." 


FEVER  SHIP 

There'll  be  no  weepin'  gells  ashore  when  our  ship  sails, 
Nor  no  crews  cherrin'  us,  standin'  at  the  rails, 
'N'  no  Blue  Peter  a-foul  the  royal  stay, 
For  we've  the  Yellow  Fever — Harry  died  to-day. — 
It's  cruel  when  a  fo'c's'le  gets  the  fever! 

'N'  Dick  has  got  the  fever-shakes,  'n'  look  what  I  was  told 
(I  went  to  get  a  sack  for  him  to  keep  from  the  cold) : 
"Sir,  can  I  have  a  sack?"  I  says,  "for  Dick  'e's  fit  to  die." 
"Oh,  sack  be  shot! "  the  skipper  says,  "jest  let  the  rotter  lie!  "- 
It's  cruel  when  a  fo'c's'le  gets  the  fever! 

It's  a  cruel  port  is  Santos,  and  a  hungry  land, 
With  rows  o'  graves  already  dug  in  yonder  strip  of  sand, 
'N'  Dick  is  hollerin'  up  the  hatch,  'e  says  e's'  goin'  blue, 
His  pore  teeth  are  chattering,  'n'  what's  a  man  to  do? — 
It's  cruel  when  a  fo'c's'le  gets  the  fever! 


FEVER-CHILLS 

He  tottered  out  of  the  alleyway  with  cheeks  the  colour  of  paste, 
And  shivered  a  spell  and  mopped  his  brow  with  a  clout  of  cotton 

waste: 

"I've  a  lick  of  fever-chills,"  he  said,  "'n'  my  inside  it's  green, 
But  I'd  be  as  right  as  rain,"  he  said,  "if  I  had  some  quinine, — 

But  there  ain't  no  quinine  for  us  poor  sailor-men. 

("I 


SALT-WATER  BALLADS 

"But  them  there  passengers,"  he  said,  "if  they  gets  fever-chills, 
There's  brimmin'  buckets  o'  quinine  for  them,  'n'  bulgin' 

crates  o'  pills, 

'N'  a  doctor  with  Latin  'n'  drugs  'n'  all — enough  to  sink  a  town, 
'N'  they  lies  quiet  in  their  blushin'  bunks  'n'  mops  their  gruel 

down, — 

But  their  ain't  none  o'  them  fine  ways  for  us  poor  sailor- 
men. 

"But  the  Chief  comes  forrard  'n'  he  says,  says  he,  "I  gives  you 

a  straight  tip: 

Come  none  o'  your  Cape  Horn  fever  lays  aboard  o'  this  yer  ship. 
On  wi'  your  rags  o'  duds,  my  son,  'n'  aft,  'n'  down  the  hole: 
The  best  cure  known  for  fever-chills  is  shovelling  bloody  coal." 

It's  hardy  my  son,  that's  what  it  is,  for  us  poor  sailor-men." 


ONE  OF  THE  BO'SUN'S  YARNS 

Loafin'  around  in  Sailor  Town,  a-bluin'  o'  my  advance, 
I  met  a  derelict  donkeyman  who  led  me  a  merry  dance, 
Till  he  landed  me  'n'  bleached  me  fair  in  the  bar  of  a  rum- 
saloon, 
'N'  there  he  spun  me  a  juice  of  a  yarn  to  this-yer  brand  of  tune. 

"It's  a  solemn  gospel,  mate,"  he  says,  "but  a  man  as  ships 

aboard 

A  steamer-tramp,  he  gets  his  whack  of  the  wonders  of  the  Lord — 
Such  as  roaches  crawlin'  over  his  bunk,  'n'  snakes  inside  his 

bread, 

And  work  by  night  and  work  by  day  enough  to  strike  him  dead. 

[12] 


ONE  OF  THE  BO'SUN'S  YARNS 

"But  that  there's  by  the  way,"  says  he;  "the  yarn  I'm  goin* 

to  spin 

Is  about  myself  'n'  the  life  I  led  in  the  last  ship  I  was  in, 
The  'Esmeralda,'  casual  tramp,  from  Hull  towards  the  Hook, 
Wi'  one  o'  the  brand  o'  Cain  for  mate  'n'  a  human  mistake  for 

cook. 

"We'd  a  week  or  so  of  dippin'  around  in  a  wind  from  outer  hell, 
With  a  fathom  or  more  of  broken  sea  at  large  in  the  forrard  well, 
Till  our  boats  were  bashed  and  bust  and  broke  and  gone  to 

Davy  Jones, 
'N'  then  come  white  Atlantic  fog  as  chilled  us  to  the  bones. 

"We  slowed  her  down  and  started  the  horn  and  watch  and 

watch  about, 

We  froze  the  marrow  in  all  our  bones  a-keepin'  a  good  look-out, 
'N'  the  ninth  night  out,  in  the  middle  watch,  I  woke  from  a 

pleasant  dream, 
With  the  smash  of  a  steamer  ramming  our  plates  a  point  abaft 

the  beam. 

"'Twas  cold  and  dark  when  I  fetched  the  deck,  dirty  'n'  cold 

V  thick, 
'N'  there  was  a  feel  in  the  way  she  rode  as  fairly  turned  me 

sick; — 
She  was  settlin',  listin'  quickly  down,  'n'  I  heard  the  mates 

a-cursin,' 
'N'  I  heard  the  wash  'n'  the  grumble-grunt  of  a  steamer's 

screws  reversin '. 

"She  was  leavin'  us,  mate,  to  sink  or  swim,  'n'  the  words  we 

took  'n'  said 
They   turned    the   port-light   grassy-green   'n'   the    starboard 

rosy-red. 

[13] 


SALT-WATER  BALLADS 

We  give  her  a  hot  perpetual  taste  of  the  singeing  curse  of  Cain, 
As  we  heard  her  back  'n'  clear  the  wreck  'n'  off  to  her  course 
again. 

"Then  the  mate  came  dancin'  on  to  the  scene,  'n'  he  says, 

"Now  quit  yer  chin, 

Or  I'll  smash  yer  skulls,  so  help  me  James,  'n'  let  some  wisdom  in. 
Ye  dodderin'  scum  o'  the  slums,"  he  says,  "are  ye  drunk  or 

blazin*  daft? 
If  ye  wish  to  save  yer  sickly  hides,  ye'd  best  contrive  a  raft." 

"So  he  spoke  us  fair  and  turned  us  to,  'n'  we  wrought  wi'  tooth 

and  nail 
Wi'  scantling,  casks,  'n'  coops  'n'  ropes,  'n'  boiler-plates  'n' 

sail, 

'N'  all  the  while  it  were  dark  'n'  cold  'n'  dirty  as  it  could  be, 
'N'  she  was  soggy  'n'  settlin'  down  to  a  berth  beneath  the  sea. 


"  Soggy  she  grew,  'n'  she  didn't  lift,  'n'  she  listed  more  'n'  more, 
Till  her  bell  struck  'n'  her  boiler-pipes  began  to  wheeze  'n'  snore; 
She  settled,  settled,  listed,  heeled,  'n'  then  may  I  be  cust, 
If  her  sneezin',  wheezin'  boiler-pipes  did  not  begin  to  bust! 

"'N'  then  the  stars  began  to  shine,  'n'  the  birds  began  to  sing, 
'N'  the  next  I  knowed  I  was  bandaged  up  'n'  my  arm  were  in 

a  sling, 

'N'  a  swab  in  uniform  were  there,  'n'  'Well,'  says  he,  '  'n'  how 
Are  yer  arms,  'n'  legs,  'n'  liver,  'n'  lungs,  'n'  bones  a-feelin' 

now?' 

"  'Where  am  I  ?'  says  I,  'n'  he  says,  says  he,  a-cantin'  to  the  roll, 
'You're  aboard  the  R.  M.  S.  "Marie"  in  the  after  Glory-Hole, 

[14] 


HELL'S  PAVEMENT 

'N'  you've  had  a  shave,  if  you  wish  to  know,  from  the  port  o' 

Kingdom  Come. 
Drink  this/  he  says,  'n'  I  takes  'n'  drinks,  'n'  s'elp  me,  it  was 

rum! 

"Seven  survivors  seen  'n'  saved  of  the  'Esmeralda's'  crowd, 
Taken  aboard  the  sweet  'Marie'  'n'  bunked  'n'  treated  proud, 
'N'  D.  B.  S.'d  to  Mersey  Docks  ('n'  a  joyful  trip  we  made), 
'N'  there  the  skipper  were  given  a  purse  by  a  grateful  Board 
of  Trade. 

"That's  the  end  o'  the  yarn,"  he  says,  'n'  he  takes  'n'  wipes 

his  lips, 
"Them's  the  works  o'  the  Lord  you  sees  in  steam  'n'  sailin' 

ships, — 

Rocks  'n'  fogs  'n'  shatterin'  seas  'n'  breakers  right  ahead, 
'N'  work  o'  nights  'n'  work  o'  days  enough  to  strike  you  dead." 


HELL'S  PAVEMENT 

"When  I'm  discharged  in  Liverpool  'n'  draws  my  bit  o'  pay, 

I  won't  come  to  sea  no  more. 
I'll  court  a  pretty  little  lass  'n'  have  a  weddin'  day, 

'N'  settle  somewhere  down  ashore. 
I'll  never  fare  to  sea  again  a-temptin'  Davy  Jones, 
A-hearkening  to  the  cruel  sharks  a-hungerin'  for  my  bones; 
I'll  run  a  blushin'  dairy-farm  or  go  a-crackin'  stones, 

Or  buy  'n'  keep  a  little  liquor-store," — 

So  he  said, 
hsl 


SALT-WATER  BALLADS 

They  towed  her  in  to  Liverpool,  we  made  the  hooker  fast, 
And  the  copper-bound  officials  paid  the  crew, 

And  Billy  drew  his  money,  but  the  money  didn't  last, 
For  he  painted  the  alongshore  blue, — 

It  was  rum  for  Poll,  and  rum  for  Nan,  and  gin  for  Jolly  Jack. 
He  shipped  a  week  later  in  the  clothes  upon  his  back, 
He  had  to  pinch  a  little  straw,  he  had  to  beg  a  sack 
To  sleep  on,  when  his  watch  was  through,— 

So  he  did. 


SEA-CHANGE 

"Goneys  and  gullies  an'  all  o'  the  birds  o'  the  sea, 
They  ain't  no  birds,  not  really,"  said  Billy  the  Dane. 

"Not  mollies,  nor  gullies,  nor  goneys  at  all,"  said  he, 
"  But  simply  the  sperrits  of  mariners  livin'  again. 

"Them  birds  goin*  fishin'  is  nothin'  but  souls  o'  the  drowned, 
Souls  o'  the  drowned  an'  the  kicked  as  are  never  no  more; 

An'  that  there  haughty  old  albatross  cruisin'  around, 
Belike  he's  Admiral  Nelson  or  Admiral  Noah. 

"An*  merry's  the  life  they  are  living.     They  settle  and  dip, 
They  fishes,  they  never  stands  watches,  they  waggle  their 
wings; 

When  a  ship  comes  by,  they  fly  to  look  at  the  ship 
To  see  how  the  nowaday  mariners  manages  things. 

"When  freezing  aloft  in  a  snorter,  I  tell  you  I  wish — 

(Though  maybe  it  ain't  like  a  Christian) — I  wish  I  could  be 

A  haughty  old  copper-bound  albatross  dipping  for  fish 
And  coming  the  proud  over  all  o'  the  birds  o'  the  sea." 

[i6J 


HARBOUR-BAR 

All  in  the  feathered  palm-tree  tops  the  bright  green  parrots 

screech, 

The  white  line  of  the  running  surf  goes  booming  down  the  beach, 
But  I  shall  never  see  them,  though  the  land  lies  close  aboard, 
I've  shaped  the  last  long  silent  tack  as  takes  one  to  the  Lord. 

Give  me  the  Scripters,  Jakey,  'n*  my  pipe  atween  my  lips,    . 
I'm  bound  for  somewhere  south  and  far  beyond  the  track  of 

ships; 

I've  run  my  rags  of  colours  up  and  clinched  them  to  the  stay, 
And  God  the  pilot's  come  aboard  to  bring  me  up  the  bay. 

You'll  mainsail-haul  my  bits  o'  things  when  Christ  has  took 

my  soul, 
'N'  you'll  lay  me  quiet  somewhere  at  the  landward  end  the 

Mole, 
Where  I  shall  hear  the  steamers'  sterns  a-squattering  from  the 

heave, 
And  the  topsail  blocks  a-piping  when  a  rope-yarn  fouls  the 

sheave. 

Give  me  a  sup  of  lime-juice;  Lord,  I'm  drifting  in  to  port, 
The  landfall  lies  to  windward  and  the  wind  comes  light  and 

short, 

And  I'm  for  signing  off  and  out  to  take  my  watch  below, 
And — prop  a  fellow,  Jakey — Lord,  it's  time  for  me  to  go! 


THE  TURN  OF  THE  TIDE 

An*  Bill  can  have  my  sea-boots,  Nigger  Jim  can  have  my  knife, 

You  can  divvy  up  the  dungarees  an'  bed, 
An'  the  ship  can  have  my  blessing,  an'  the  Lord  can  have  my  life, 

An'  sails  an'  fish  my  body  when  I'm  dead. 

An*  dreaming  down  below  there  in  the  tangled  greens  an'  blues, 
Where  the  sunlight  shudders  golden  round  about, 

I  shall  hear  the  ships  complainin*  an'  the  cursin'  of  the  crews, 
An'  be  sorry  when  the  watch  is  tumbled  out. 

I  shall  hear  them  hilly-hollying  the  weather  crojick  brace, 

And  the  sucking  of  the  wash  about  the  hull; 
When  they  chanty  up  the  topsail  I'll  be  hauling  in  my  place, 

For  my  soul  will  follow  seawards  like  a  gull. 

I  shall  hear  the  blocks  a-grunting  in  the  bumpkins  over-side, 
An'  the  slatting  of  the  storm-sails  on  the  stay, 

An'  the  rippling  of  the  catspaw  at  the  making  of  the  tide, 
An'  the  swirl  and  splash  of  porpoises  at  play. 

An*  Bill  can  have  my  sea-boots,  Nigger  Jim  can  have  my  knife, 
You  can  divvy  up  the  whack  I  haven't  scofft, 

An*  the  ship  can  have  my  blessing  and  the  Lord  can  have  my 

life, 
For  it's  time  I  quit  the  deck  and  went  aloft. 


ONE  OF  WALLY'S  YARNS 

The  watch  was  up  on  the  topsail-yard  a-making  fast  the  sail, 
'N'  Joe  was  swiggin'  his  gasket  taut,  V  I  felt  the  stirrup  give, 
'N'  he  dropped  sheer  from  the  tops'1-yard  V  barely  cleared  the 

rail, 

'N'  o'  course,  we  bein'  aloft,  we  couldn't  do  nothin* — 
We  couldn't  lower  a  boat  and  go  a-lookin'  for  him, 
For  it  blew  hard  'n'  there  was  sech  a  sea  runnin* 
That  no  boat  wouldn't  live. 

I  seed  him  rise  in  the  white  o'  the  wake,  I  seed  him  lift  a  hand 

('N'  him  in  his  oilskin  suit  'n'  all),  I  heard  him  lift  a  cry; 

'N'  there  was  his  place  on  the  yard  'n'  all,  'n'  the  stirrup's 

busted   strand. 

'N'  the  old  man  said  there's  a  cruel  old  sea  runnin', 
A  cold  green  Barney's  Bull  of  a  sea  runnin'; 
It's  hard,  but  I  ain't  agoin'  to  let  a  boat  be  lowered: 
So  we  left  him  there  to  die. 

He  couldn't  have  kept  afloat  for  long  an'  him  lashed  up  'n'  all, 
'N'  we  couldn't  see  him  for  long,  for  the  sea  was  blurred  with 

the  sleet  'n'  snow, 
'N'  we  couldn't  think  of  him  much  because  o'  the  snortin', 

screamin'  squall. 

There  was  a  hand  less  at  the  halliards  'n'  the  braces, 
'N'  a  name  less  when  the  watch  spoke  to  the  muster-roll» 
'N'  a  empty  bunk  'n'  a  pannikin  as  wasn't  wanted 
When  the  watch  went  below. 


A  VALEDICTION  (LIVERPOOL  DOCKS) 

A   CRIMP.  A  DRUNKEN    SAILOR. 

//  there  anything  as  I  can  do  ashore  for  you 
When  you've  dropped  down  the  tide? — 

You  can  take  'n'  tell  Nan  I'm  goin'  about  the  world  agen, 

'N'  that  the  world's  wide. 
'N'  tell  her  that  there  ain't  no  postal  service 

Not  down  on  the  blue  sea. 
'N'  tell  her  that  she'd  best  not  keep  her  fires  alight 

Nor  set  up  late  for  me. 
'N'  tell  her  I'll  have  forgotten  all  about  her 

Afore  we  cross  the  Line. 
'N'  tell  her  that  the  dollars  of  any  other  sailor-man 

Is  as  good  red  gold  as  mine. 

Is  there  anything  as  I  can  do  aboard  for  you 
Afore  the  tow-rope's  taut? 

I'm  new  to  this  packet  and  all  the  ways  of  her, 

'N'  I  don't  know  of  aught; 
But  I  knows  as  I'm  goin'  down  to  the  seas  agen 

'N'  the  seas  are  salt  'n'  drear; 
But  I  knows  as  all  the  doin'  as  you're  man  enough  for 

Won't  make  them  lager-beer. 

'N'  ain't  there  nothin'  as  I  can  do  ashore  for  you 
When  you've  got  fair  afloat? — 

[20] 


A  NIGHT  AT  DAGO  TOM'S 

You  can  buy  a  farm  with  the  dollars  as  you've  done  me  of 
'N'  cash  my  advance-note. 

Is  there  anythin'  you'd  fancy  for  your  breakfastin' 
When  you're  home  across  Mersey  Bar? — 

I  wants  a  red  herrin'  'n'  a  prairie  oyster 
'N'  a  bucket  of  Three  Star, 
'N'  a  gell  with  redder  lips  than  Polly  has  got, 
JN*  prettier  ways  than  Nan 

Welly  so-long,  Billy,  'n'  a  spankin'  heavy  pay-day  to  you! 
So-long,  my  fancy  man! 


A  NIGHT  AT  DAGO  TOM'S 

Oh  yesterday,  I  t'ink  it  was,  while  cruisin'  down  the  street, 
I  met  with  Bill. — "Hullo,"  he  says,  "let's  give  the  girls  a  treat." 
We'd  red  bandanas  round  our  necks  'n'  our  shrouds  new  rattled 

down, 
So  we  filled  a  couple  of  Santy  Cruz  and  cleared  for  Sailor  Town. 

We  scooted  south  with  a  press  of  sail  till  we  fetched  to  a  caboose, 
The  "Sailor's  Rest,"  by  Dago  Tom,  alongside  "Paddy's  Goose." 
Red  curtains  to  the  windies,  ay,  'n'  white  sand  to  the  floor, 
And  an  old  blind  fiddler  liltin'  the  tune  of  "Lowlands  no  more." 

He  played  the  "Shaking  of  the  Sheets"  'n'  the  couples  did 

advance, 

Bowing,  stamping,  curtsying,  in  the  shuffling  of  the  dance; 
The  old  floor  rocked  and  quivered,  so  it  struck  beholders  dumb, 
'N'  arterwards  there  was  sweet  songs  'n'  good  Jamaikey  rum. 

[21] 


SALT-WATER  BALLADS 

'N'  there  was  many  a  merry  yarn  of  many  a  merry  spree 
Aboard  the  ships  with  royals  set  a-sailing  on  the  sea, 
Yarns  of  the  hooker  "Spindrift,"  her  as  had  the  clipper-bow — 
"There  ain't  no  ships,"  says  Bill  to  me,  "like  that  there  hooker 
now." 

When  the  old  blind  fiddler  played  the  tune  of  "  Pipe  the  Watch 

Below," 
The  skew-eyed  landlord  dowsed  the  glim  and  bade  us  "stamp 

V  go," 

'N'  we  linked  it  home,  did  Bill  V  I,  adown  the  scattered  streets, 
Until  we  fetched  to  Land  o'  Nodatween  the  linen  sheets. 


PORT  OF  MANY  SHIPS 

"It's  a  sunny  pleasant  anchorage,  is  Kingdom  Come, 
Where  crews  is  always  layin'  aft  for  double-tots  o'  rum, 
'N'  there's  dancin'  'n'  fiddlin'  of  ev'ry  kind  o'  sort, 
It's  a  fine  place  for  sailor-men  is  that  there  port. 

'N'  I  wish— 

I  wish  as  I  was  there. 

"The  winds  is  never  nothin'  more  than  jest  light  airs, 
'N'  no-one  gets  belayin'-pinned,  'n'  no-one  never  swears, 
Yer  free  to  loaf  an'  laze  around,  yer  pipe  atween  yer  lips, 
Lollin*  on  the  fo'c's'le,  sonny,  lookin'  at  the  ships. 

'N'  I  wish— 

I  wish  as  I  was  there. 
[a»J 


CAPE  HORN  GOSPEL-I 

"For  ridin'  in  the  anchorage  the  ships  of  all  the  world 
Have  got  one  anchor  down  'n'  all  sails  furled. 
AH  the  sunken  hookers  'n'  the  crews  as  took  V  died 
They  lays  there  merry,  sonny,  swingin'  to  the  tide. 

'N'  I  wish- 

I  wish  as  I  was  there. 

"Drowned  old  wooden  hookers  green  wi'  drippin'  wrack, 
Ships  as  never  fetched  to  port,  as  never  came  back, 
Swingin'  to  the  blushin'  tide,  dippin'  to  the  swell, 
'N'  the  crews  all  singin',  sonny,  beatin'  on  the  bell. 

'N'  I  wish- 

I  wish  as  I  was  there." 


CAPE  HORN  GOSPEL— I 

"I  was  in  a  hooker  once,"  said  Karlssen, 
"And  Bill,  as  was  a  seaman,  died, 
So  we  lashed  him  in  an  old  tarpaulin 
And  tumbled  him  across  the  side; 
And  the  fun  of  it  was  that  all  his  gear  was 
Divided  up  among  the  crew 
Before  that  blushing  human  error, 
Our  crawling  little  captain,  knew. 

"On  the  passage  home  one  morning 
(As  certain  as  I  prays  for  grace) 
There  was  old  Bill's  shadder  a-hauling 
At  the  weather  mizzen-topsail  brace. 
He  was  all  grown  green  with  sea-weed, 
[23! 


SALT-WATER  BALLADS 

He  was  all  lashed  up  and  shored; 

So  I  says  to  him,  I  says,  'Why,  Billy! 

What's  a-bringin'  of  you  back  aboard?' 

"'I'm  a-weary  of  them  there  mermaids,' 

Says  old  Bill's  ghost  to  me; 

'It  ain't  no  place  for  a  Christian 

Below  there — under  sea. 

For  it's  all  blown  sand  and  shipwrecks, 

And  old  bones  eaten  bare, 

And  them  cold  fishy  females 

With  long  green  weeds  for  hair. 

"'And  there  ain't  no  dances  shuffled, 

And  no  old  yarns  is  spun, 

And  there  ain't  no  stars  but  starfish, 

And  never  any  moon  or  sun. 

I  heard  your  keel  a-passing 

And  the  running  rattle  of  the  brace,' 

And  he  says,  'Stand  by,'  says  William, 

'For  a  shift  towards  a  better  place.' 

"Well,  he  sogered  about  decks  till  sunrise, 
When  a  rooster  in  the  hen-coop  crowed, 
And  as  so  much  smoke  he  faded 
And  as  so  much  smoke  he  goed; 
And  I've  often  wondered  since,  Jan, 
How  his  old  ghost  stands  to  fare 
Long  o'  them  cold  fishy  females 
With  long  green  weeds  for  hair." 


CAPE  HORN  GOSPEL— II 

Jake  was  a  dirty  Dago  lad,  an'  he  gave  the  skipper  chin, 

An'  the  skipper  up  an'  took  him  a  crack  with  an  iron  belaying- 

pin 
Which  stiffened  him  out  a  rusty  corp,  as  pretty  as  you  could 

wish, 
An'  then  we  shovelled  him  up  in  a  sack  an'  dumped  him  to 

the  fish. 

That  was  jest  arter  we'd  got  sail  on  her. 

Josey  slipped  from  the  tops'1-yard  an'  bust  his  bloody  back 
(Which  corned  from  playing  the  giddy  goat  an'  leavin'  go  the 

jack); 

We  lashed  his  chips  in  clouts  of  sail  an'  ballasted  him  with  stones, 
"The  Lord  hath  taken  away,"  we  says,  an'  we  give  him  to 

Davy  Jones. 

An'  that  was  afore  we  were  up  with  the  Line. 

Joe  were  chippin'  a  rusty  plate  a-squattin'  upon  the  deck, 
An'  all  the  watch  he  had  the  sun  a-singein'  him  on  the  neck, 
An'  forrard  he  falls  at  last,  he  does,  an'  he  lets  his  mallet  go, 
Dead  as  a  nail  with  a  calenture,  an'  that  was  the  end  of  Joe. 
An'  that  was  just  afore  we  made  the  Plate. 

All  o'  the  rest  were  sailor-men,  an'  it  come  to  rain  an'  squall, 
An'  then  it  was  halliards,  sheets,  an  'tacks  "clue  up,  an'  let 

go  all." 
We  snugged  her  down  an'  hove  her  to,  an'  the  old  contrairy 

cuss 

Started  a  plate,  an'  settled  an'  sank,  an'  that  was  the  end  of  us. 

[25! 


/ 
SALT-WATER  BALLADS 

We  slopped  around  on  coops  an*  planks  in  the  cold  an*  in  the 

dark, 
An'  Bill  were  drowned,  an'  Tom  were  ate  by  a  swine  of  a  cruel 

shark, 
An'  a  mail-boat  reskied  Harry  an'  I  (which  corned  of  pious 

prayers), 
Which  brings  me  here  a-kickin'  my  heels  in  the  port  of  Buenos 

Ayres. 

I'm  bound  for  home  in  the  "Oronook,"  in  a  suit  of  looted  duds, 
A  D.  B.  S.  a-earnin'  a  stake  by  helpin'  peelin'  spuds, 
An'  if  ever  I  fetch  to  Prince's  Stage  an'  sets  my  feet  ashore, 
You  bet  your  hide  that  there  I  stay,  an'  follers  the  sea  no  more. 


MOTHER  CAREY 

(AS  TOLD  ME   BY  THE   BO' 

Mother  Carey?    She's  the  mother  o*  the  witches 

'N'  all  them  sort  o'  rips; 
She's  a  fine  gell  to  look  at,  but  the  hitch  is, 

She's  a  sight  too  fond  of  ships. 
She  lives  upon  a  iceberg  to  the  norred, 

'N'  her  man  he's  Davy  Jones, 
*N*  she  combs  the  weeds  upon  her  forred 

With  pore  drowned  sailor's  bones. 

She's  the  mother  o'  the  wrecks,  V  the  mother 

Of  all  big  winds  as  blows; 
She's  up  to  some  devilry  or  other 
When  it  storms,  or  sleets,  or  snows. 


EVENING— REGATTA  DAY 

The  noise  of  the  wind's  her  screamin', 
"I'm  arter  a  plump,  young,  fine, 

Brass-buttoned,  beefy-ribbed  young  seam'n 
So  as  me  'n'  my  mate  kin  dine." 

She's  a  hungry  old  rip  'n'  a  cruel 

For  sailor-men  like  we, 
She's  give  a  many  mariners  the  gruel 

'N'  a  long  sleep  under  sea. 
She's  the  blood  o'  many  a  crew  upon  her 

'N'  the  bones  of  many  a  wreck, 
'N'  she's  barnacles  a-growin'  on  her 

'N'  shark's  teeth  round  her  neck. 

I  ain't  never  had  no  schoolin' 

Nor  read  no  books  like  you, 
But  I  knows  't  ain't  healthy  to  be  foolin* 

With  that  there  gristly  two. 
You're  young,  you  thinks,  'n'  you're  lairy, 

But  if  you're  to  make  old  bones, 
Steer  clear,  I  says,  o'  Mother  Carey, 

'N'  that  there  Davy  Jones. 


EVENING— REGATTA  DAY 

Your  nose  is  a  red  jelly,  your  mouth's  a  toothless  wreck, 

And  I'm  atop  of  you,  banging  your  head  upon  the  dirty  deck; 

And  both  your  eyes  are  bunged  and  blind  like  those  of  a  mewl- 
ing pup, 

For  you're  the  juggins  who  caught  the  crab  and  lost  the  ship 
the  Cup. 

1*7] 


SALT-WATER  BALLADS 

He  caught  a  crab  in  the  spurt  home,  this  blushing  cherub  did, 
And  the  "Craigie's"  whaler  slipped  ahead  like  a  cart-wheel 

on  the  skid, 
And  beat  us  fair  by  a  boat's  nose  though  we  sweated  fit  to 

start  her, 
So  we  are  playing  at  Nero  now,  and  he's  the  Christian  martyr. 

And  Stroke  is  lashing  a  bunch  of  keys  to  the  buckle-end  a  belt, 
And  we're  going  to  lay  you  over  a  chest  and  baste  you  till  you 

melt. 
The  "Craigie"  boys  are  beating  the  bell  and  cheering  down 

the  tier, 
D'ye  hear,  you  Port  Mahone  baboon,  I  ask  you,  do  you  hear? 


A  VALEDICTION 

We're  bound  for  blue  water  where  the  great  winds  blow, 
It's  time  to  get  the  tacks  aboard,  time  for  us  to  go; 
The  crowd's  at  the  capstan  and  the  tune's  in  the  shout, 
"A  long  pull,  a  strong  pull,  and  warp  the  hooker  out" 

The  bow-wash  is  eddying,  spreading  from  the  bows, 
Aloft  and  loose  the  topsails  and  some  one  give  a  rouse; 
A  salt  Atlantic  chanty  shall  be  music  to  the  dead, 
"A  long  pull,  a  strong  pull,  and  the  yard  to  the  masthead." 

Green  and  merry  run  the  seas,  the  wind  comes  cold, 
Salt  and  strong  and  pleasant,  and  worth  a  mint  of  gold; 
And  she's  staggering,  swooping,  as  she  feels  her  feet, 
"A  long  pull,  a  strong  pull,  and  aft  the  main-sheet" 

U8] 


A  PIER-HEAD  CHORUS 

Shrilly  squeal  the  running  sheaves,  the  weather-gear  strains, 
Such  a  clatter  of  chain-sheets,  the  devil's  in  the  chains; 
Over  us  the  bright  stars,  under  us  the  drowned, 
"A  long  pull,  a  strong  pull,  and  we're  outward  bound!  " 

Yonder,  round  and  ruddy,  is  the  mellow  old  moon, 
The  red-funnelled  tug  has  gone,  and  now,  sonny,  soon 
We'll  be  clear  of  the  Channel,  so  watch  how  you  steer, 
"Ease  her  when  she  pitches,  and  so-long,  my  dear!  " 


A  PIER-HEAD  CHORUS 

Oh  I'll  be  chewing  salted  horse  and  biting  flinty  bread, 
And  dancing  with  the  stars  to  watch,  upon  the  fo'c's'le  head, 
Hearkening  to  the  bow-wash  and  the  welter  of  the  tread 
Of  a  thousand  tons  of  clipper  running  free. 

For  the  tug  has  got  the  tow-rope  and  will  take  us  to  the  Downs, 
Her  paddles  churn  the  river-wrack  to  muddy  greens  and  browns, 
And  I  have  given  river-wrack  and  all  the  filth  of  towns 
For  the  rolling,  combing  cresters  of  the  sea. 

We'll  sheet  the  mizzen-royals  home  and  shimmer  down  the  Bay, 
The  sea-line  blue  with  billows,  the  land-line  blurred  and  grey; 
The  bow-wash  will  be  piling  high  and  thrashing  into  spray, 
As  the  hooker's  fore-foot  tramples  down  the  swell. 

She'll  log  a  giddy  seventeen  and  rattle  out  the  reel, 
The  weight  of  all  the  run-out  line  will  be  a  thing  to  feel, 
As  the  bacca-quidding  shell-back  shambles  aft  to  take  the  wheel, 
And  the  sea-sack  little  middy  strikes  the  bell. 

[29] 


THE  GOLDEN  CITY  OF  ST.  MARY 

Out  beyond  the  sunset,  could  I  but  find  the  way, 
Is  a  sleepy  blue  laguna  which  widens  to  a  bay, 
And  there's  the  Blessed  City — so  the  sailors  say — 
The  Golden  City  of  St.  Mary. 

It's  built  of  fair  marble — white — without  a  stain, 
And  in  the  cool  twilight  when  the  sea-winds  wane 
The  bells  chime  faintly,  like  a  soft,  warm  rain, 
In  the  Golden  City  of  St.  Mary. 

Among  the  green  palm-trees  where  the  fire-flies  shine, 
Are  the  white  tavern  tables  where  the  gallants  dine, 
Singing  slow  Spanish  songs  like  old  mulled  wine, 
In  the  Golden  City  of  St.  Mary. 

Oh  I'll  be  shipping  sunset-wards  and  westward-ho 
Through  the  green  toppling  combers  a-shattering  into  snow, 
Till  I  come  to  quiet  moorings  and  a  watch  below, 
In  the  Golden  City  of  St.  Mary. 


TRADE  WINDS 

In  the  harbour,  in  the  island,  in  the  Spanish  Seas, 
Are  the  tiny  white  houses  and  the  orange-trees, 
And  day-long,  night  long,  the  cool  and  pleasant  breeze 
Of  the  steady  Trade  Winds  blowing. 
[30] 


SEA-FEVER 

There  is  the  red  wine,  the  nutty  Spanish  ale, 
The  shuffle  of  the  dancers,  the  old  salt's  tale, 
The  squeaking  fiddle,  and  the  soughing  in  the  sail 
Of  the  steady  Trade  Winds  blowing. 

And  o'  nights  there's  fire-flies  and  the  yellow  moon, 
And  in  the  ghostly  palm-trees  the  sleepy  tune 
Of  the  quiet  voice  calling  me,  the  long  low  croon 
Of  the  steady  Trade  Winds  blowing. 


SEA-FEVER 

I  must  go  down  to  the  seas  again,  to  the  lonely  sea  and  the  sky, 

And  all  I  ask  is  a  tall  ship  and  a  star  to  steer  her  by, 

And  the  wheel's  kick  and  the  wind's  song  and  the  white  sail's 

shaking, 
And  a  grey  mist  on  the  sea's  face  and  a  grey  dawn  breaking. 

I  must  go  down  to  the  seas  again,  for  the  call  of  the  running  tide 
Is  a  wild  call  and  a  clear  call  that  may  not  be  denied; 
And  all  I  ask  is  a  windy  day  with  the  white  clouds  flying, 
And  the  flung  spray  and  the  blown  spume,  and  the  sea-gulls 
crying. 

I  must  go  down  to  the  seas  again  to  the  vagrant  gypsy  life, 
To  the  gull's  way  and  the  whale's  way  where  the  wind's  like 

a  whetted  knife; 

And  all  I  ask  is  a  merry  yarn  from  a  laughing  fellow-rover, 
And  quiet  sleep  and  a  sweet  dream  when  the  long  trick's  over. 


A  WANDERER'S  SONG 

A  wind's  in  the  heart  of  me,  a  fire's  in  my  heels, 
I  am  tired  of  brick  and  stone  and  rumbling  wagon-wheels; 
I  hunger  for  the  sea's  edge,  the  limits  of  the  land, 
Where  the  wild  old  Atlantic  is  shouting  on  the  sand. 

Oh  I'll  be  going,  leaving  the  noises  of  the  street, 

To  where  a  lifting  foresail-foot  is  yanking  at  the  sheet; 

To  a  windy,  tossing  anchorage  where  yawls  and  ketches  ride, 

Oh  I'll  be  going,  going,  until  I  meet  the  tide. 

And  first  I'll  hear  the  sea-wind,  the  mewing  of  the  gulls, 
The  clucking,  sucking  of  the  sea  about  the  rusty  hulls, 
The  songs  at  the  capstan  in  the  hooker  warping  out, 
And  then  the  heart  of  me '11  know  I'm  there  or  thereabout. 

Oh  I  am  tired  of  brick  and  stone,  the  heart  of  me  is  sick, 
For  windy  green,  unquiet  sea,  the  realm  of  Moby  Dick; 
And  I  '11  be  going,  going,  from  the  roaring  of  the  wheels, 
For  a  wind's  in  the  heart  of  me,  a  fire's  in  my  heels. 


CARDIGAN  BAY 

Clean,  green,  windy  billows  notching  out  the  sky, 
Grey  clouds  tattered  into  rags,  sea-winds  blowing  high, 
And  the  ships  under  topsails,  beating,  thrashing  by, 
And  the  mewing  of  the  herring  gulls. 
[32! 


CHRISTMAS  EVE  AT  SEA 

Dancing,  flashing  green  seas  shaking  white  locks, 
Boiling  in  blind  eddies  over  hidden  rocks, 
And  the  wind  in  the  rigging,  the  creaking  of  the  blocks, 
And  the  straining  of  the  timber  hulls. 

Delicate,  cool  sea-weeds,  green  and  amber-brown, 
beds  where  shaken  sunlight  slowly  filters  down 

On  many  a  drowned  seventy-four,  and  many  a  sunken  town, 
And  the  whitening  of  the  dead  men's  skulls. 


CHRISTMAS  EVE  AT  SEA 

A  wind  is  rustling  "  south  and  soft," 

Cooing  a  quiet  country  tune, 
The  calm  sea  sighs,  and  far  aloft 

The  sails  are  ghostly  in  the  moon. 

Unquiet  ripples  lisp  and  purr, 

A  block  there  pipes  and  chirps  i'  the  sheave, 
The  wheel- ropes  jar,  the  reef-points  stir 

Faintly — and  it  is  Christmas  Eve. 

The  hushed  sea  seems  to  hold  her  breath, 
And  o'er  the  giddy,  swaying  spars, 
Silent  and  excellent  as  Death, 
The  dim  blue  skies  are  bright  with  stars. 

Dear  God — they  shone  in  Palestine 
Like  this,  and  yon  pale  moon  serene 

Looked  down  among  the  lowing  kine 
On  Mary  and  the  Nazarene. 
[33l 


SALT-WATER  BALLADS 

The  angels  called  from  deep  to  deep, 
The  burning  heavens  felt  the  thrill, 

Startling  the  flocks  of  silly  sheep 
And  lonely  shepherds  on  the  hill. 

To-night  beneath  the  dripping  bows 

Where  flashing  bubbles  burst  and  throng, 

The  bow-wash  murmurs  and  sighs  and  soughs 
A  message  from  the  angels '  song. 

The  moon  goes  nodding  down  the  west, 
The  drowsy  helmsman  strikes  the  bell; 

Rex  Judceorum  natus  fst, 

I  charge  you,  brothers,  sing  Nowell,  Nowelly 

Rex  Judxorum  natus  est. 


A  BALLAD  OF  CAPE  ST.  VINCENT 

Now,  Bill,  ain't  it  prime  to  be  a-sailin', 

Slippin'  easy,  splashin'  up  the  sea, 
Dossin'  snug  aneath  the  weather-railin', 

Quiddin'  bonded  Jacky  out  a-lee? 
English  sea  astern  us  and  afore  us, 

Reaching  out  three  thousand  miles  ahead, 
God's  own  stars  a-risin'  solemn  o'er  us, 

And — yonder's  Cape  St.  Vincent  and  the  Dead. 

There  they  lie,  Bill,  man  and  mate  together, 
Dreamin'  out  the  dog-watch  down  below, 

Anchored  in  the  Port  of  Pleasant  Weather, 
Waiting  for  the  Bo'sun's  call  to  blow. 
[34l 


THE  TARRY  BUCCANEER 

Over  them  the  tide  goes  lappin','  swayin', 
Under  them's  the  wide  bay's  muddy  bed, 

And  it's  pleasant  dreams — to  them — to  hear  us  sayin', 
Vender's  Cape  St.  Vincent  and  the  Dead. 

Hear  that  P.  and  O.  boat's  engines  dronin', 

Beating  out  of  time  and  out  of  tune, 
Ripping  past  with  every  plate  a-groanin', 

Spitting  smoke  and  cinders  at  the  moon? 
Ports  a-lit  like  little  stars  a-settin', 

See  'em  glintin'  yaller,  green,  and  red, 
Loggin'  twenty  knots,  Bill, — but  forgettin', 

Vender's  Cape  St.  Vincent  and  the  Dead. 

They're  "discharged"  now,  Billy,  "left  the  service,'* 

Rough  an'  bitter  was  the  watch  they  stood, 
Drake  an'  Blake,  an'  Collingwood  an'  Jervis, 

Nelson,  Rodney,  Hawke,  an'  Howe  an*  Hood. 
They'd  a  hard  time,  haulin'  an'  directin', 

There's  the  flag  they  left  us,  Billy — tread 
Straight  an'  keep  it  flyin' — recollectin', 

Vender's  Cape  St.  Vincent  and  the  Dead. 


THE  TARRY  BUCCANEER 

I'm  going  to  be  a  pirate  with  a  bright  brass  pivot-gun, 
And  an  island  in  the  Spanish  Main  beyond  the  setting  sun, 
And  a  silver  flagon  full  of  red  wine  to  drink  when  work  is  done, 
Like  a  fine  old  salt-sea  scavenger,  like  a  tarry  Buccaneer. 

[3Sl 


SALT-WATER  BALLADS 

With  a  sandy  creek  to  careen  in,  and  a  pig-tailed  Spanish  mate, 
And  under  my  main-hatches  a  sparkling  merry  freight 
Of  doubloons  and  double  moidores  and  pieces  of  eight, 
Like  a  fine  old  salt-sea  scavenger,  like  a  tarry  Buccaneer. 

With  a  taste  for  Spanish  wine-shops  and  for  spending  my 

doubloons, 

And  a  crew  of  swart  mulattoes  and  black-eyed  octoroons, 
And  a  thoughtful  way  with  mutineers  of  making  them  maroons, 
Like  a  fine  old  salt-sea  scavenger,  like  a  tarry  Buccaneer. 

With  a  sash  of  crimson  velvet  and  a  diamond-hiked  sword, 
And  a  silver  whistle  about  my  neck  secured  to  a  golden  cord, 
And  a  habit  of  taking  captives  and  walking  them  along  a  board, 
Like  a  fine  old  salt-sea  scavenger,  like  a  tarry  Buccaneer. 

With  a  spy-glass  tucked  beneath  my  arm  and  a  cocked  hat 

cocked  askew, 

And  a  long  low  rakish  schooner  a-cutting  of  the  waves  in  two, 
And  a  flag  of  skull  and  cross-bones  the  wickedest  that  ever  flew, 
Like  a  fine  old  salt-sea  scavenger,  like  a  tarry  Buccaneer. 


A  BALLAD  OF  JOHN  SILVER 

We  were  schooner-rigged  and  rakish,  with  a  long  and  lissome 

hull, 

And  we  flew  the  pretty  colours  of  the  cross-bones  and  the  skull; 
We'd  a  big  black  Jolly  Roger  flapping  grimly  at  the  fore, 
And  we  sailed  the  Spanish  Water  in  the  happy  days  of  yore. 

[36] 


A  BALLAD  OF  JOHN  SILVER 

We'd  a  long  brass  gun  amidship,  like  a  well-conducted  ship, 
We  had  each  a  brace  of  pistols  and  a  cutlass  at  the  hip; 
It's  a  point  which  tells  against  us,  and  a  fact  to  be  deplored, 
But  we  chased  the  goodly  merchant-men  and  laid  their  ships 
aboard. 

Then  the  dead  men  fouled  the  scuppers  and  the  wounded  filled 

the  chains, 
And  the  paint-work  all  was  spatter-dashed  with  other  people's 

brains, 

She  was  boarded,  she  was  looted,  she  was  scuttled  till  she  sank, 
And  the  pale  survivors  left  us  by  the  medium  of  the  plank. 

O!  then  it  was  (while  standing  by  the  taffrail  on  the  poop) 
We  cjuld  hear  the  drowning  folk  lament  the  absent  chicken- 
coop; 

Then,  having  washed  the  blood  away,  we'd  little  else  to  do 
Than  to  dance  a  quiet  hornpipe  as  the  old  salts  taught  us  to. 

O!  the  fiddle  on  the  fo'c's'le,  and  the  slapping  naked  soles, 
And  the  genial  "Down  the  middle,  Jake,  and  curtsey  when  she 

rolls!" 

With  the  silver  seas  around  us  and  the  pale  moon  overhead, 
And  the  look-out  not  a-looking  and  his  pipe-bowl  glowing  red. 

Ah!  the  pig-tailed,  quidding  pirates  and  the  pretty  pranks  we 

played, 
All  have  since  been  put  a  stop-to  by  the  naughty  Board  of 

Trade; 

The  schooners  and  the  merry  crews  are  laid  away  to  rest, 
A  little  south  the  sunset  in  the  Islands  of  the  Blest. 

[371 


LYRICS  FROM  "THE  BUCCANEER' 


We  are  far  from  sight  of  the  harbour  lights, 
Of  the  sea-ports  whence  we  came, 

But  the  old  sea  calls  and  the  cold  wind  bites, 
And  our  hearts  are  turned  to  flame. 

And  merry  and  rich  is  the  goodly  gear 

We'll  win  upon  the  tossing  sea, 
A  silken  gown  for  my  dainty  dear, 

And  a  gold  doubloon  for  me. 

It's  the  old  old  road  and  the  old  old  quest 

Of  the  cut-throat  sons  of  Cain, 
South  by  west  and  a  quarter  west, 

And  hey  for  the  Spanish  Main. 


II 

There's  a  sea-way  somewhere  where  all  day  long 

Is  the  hushed  susurrus  of  the  sea, 
The  mewing  of  the  skuas,  and  the  sailor's  song, 

And  the  wind's  cry  calling  me. 

There's  a  haven  somewhere  where  the  quiet  of  the  bay 

Is  troubled  with  the  shifting  tide, 
Where  the  gulls  are  flying,  crying  in  the  bright  white  spray, 

And  the  tan-sailed  schooners  ride. 
(38J 


D'AVALOS'  PRAYER 

III 

The  toppling  rollers  at  the  harbour  mouth 

Are  spattering  the  bows  with  foam, 
And  the  anchor's  catted,  and  she's  heading  for  the  south 

With  her  topsails  sheeted  home. 

And  a  merry  measure  is  the  dance  she'll  tread 
(To  the  clanking  of  the  staysail's  hanks) 

When  the  guns  are  growling  and  the  blood  runs  red, 
And  the  prisoners  are  walking  of  the  planks. 

D'AVALOS'  PRAYER 

When  the  last  sea  is  sailed  and  the  last  shallow  charted, 
When  the  last  field  is  reaped  and  the  last  harvest  stored, 

When  the  last  fire  is  out  and  the  last  guest  departed, 

Grant  the  last  prayer  that  I  shall  pray,  Be  good  to  me,  O 
Lord! 

And  let  me  pass  in  a  night  at  sea,  a  night  of  storm  and  thunder, 
In  the  loud  crying  of  the  wind  through  sail  and  rope  and 

spar; 
Send  me  a  ninth  great  peaceful  wave  to  drown  and  roll  me 

under 

To  the  cold  tunny-fishes'  home  where  the  drowned  galleons 
are. 

And  in  the  dim  green  quiet  place  far  out  of  sight  and  hearing, 
Grant  I  may  hear  at  whiles  the  wash  and  thresh  of  the  sea- 
foam 

About  the  fine  keen  bows  of  the  stately  clippers  steering 
Towards  the  lone  northern  star  and  the  fair  ports  of  home. 

[39l 


THE  WEST  WIND 

It's  a  warm  wind,  the  west  wind,  full  of  birds'  cries; 
I  never  hear  the  west  wind  but  tears  are  in  my  eyes. 
For  it  comes  from  the  west  lands,  the  old  brown  hills, 
And  April's  in  the  west  wind,  and  daffodils. 

It's  a  fine  land,  the  west  land,  for  hearts  as  tired  as  mine, 
Apple  orchards  blossom  there,  and  the  air's  like  wine. 
There  is  cool  green  grass  there,  where  men  may  lie  at  rest, 
And  the  thrushes  are  in  song  there,  fluting  from  the  nest. 

"Will  you  not  come  home,  brother?  you  have  been  long  away, 
It's  April,  and  blossom  time,  and  white  is  the  spray; 
And  bright  is  the  sun,  brother,  and  warm  is  the  rain, — 
Will  you  not  come  home,  brother,  home  to  us  again  ? 

The  young  corn  is  green,  brother,  where  the  rabbits  run, 
It's  blue  sky,  and  white  clouds,  and  warm  rain  and  sun. 
It's  song  to  a  man's  soul,  brother,  fire  to  a  man's  brain, 
To  hear  the  wild  bees  and  see  the  merry  spring  again. 

Larks  are  singing  in  the  west,  brother,  above  the  green  wheat, 
So  will  ye  not  come  home,  brother,  and  rest  your  tired  feet  ? 
I've  a  balm  for  bruised  hearts,  brother,  sleep  for  aching  eyes," 
Says  the  warm  wind,  the  west  wind,  full  of  birds'  cries. 

It's  the  white  road  westwards  is  the  road  I  must  tread 
To  the  green  grass,  the  cool  grass,  and  rest  for  heart  and  head, 
To  the  violets  and  the  brown  brooks  and  the  thrushes'  song, 
In  the  fine  land,  the  west  land,  the  land  where  I  belong. 

[40] 


THE  GALLEY-ROWERS 

Staggering  over  the  running  combers 

The  long-ship  heaves  her  dripping  flanks, 
Singing  together,  the  sea-roamers 

Drive  the  oars  grunting  in  the  banks. 
A  long  pull, 
And  a  long  long  pull  to  Mydath. 

"Where  are  ye  bound,  ye  swart  sea-farers, 
Vexing  the  grey  wind-angered  brine, 

Bearers  of  home-spun  cloth,  and  bearers 
Of  goat-skins  filled  with  country  wine?" 

"We  are  bound  sunset-wards,  not  knowing, 
Over  the  whale's  way  miles  and  miles, 

Going  to  Vine-Land,  haply  going 
To  the  Bright  Beach  of  the  Blessed  Isles. 

"In  the  wind's  teeth  and  the  spray's  stinging 

Westward  and  outward  forth  we  go, 
Knowing  not  whither  nor  why,  but  singing 
An  old  old  oar-song  as  we  row. 
A  long  pull, 
And  a  long  long  pull  to  Mydath.'* 


VAGABOND 

Dunno  a  heap  about  the  what  an*  why, 

Can't  say's  I  ever  knowed. 
Heaven  to  me's  a  fair  blue  stretch  of  sky, 

Earth's  jest  a  dusty  road. 

Dunno  the  names  o'  things,  nor  what  they  are, 

Can't  say's  I  ever  will. 
Dunno  about  God — he's  jest  the  noddin'  star 

Atop  the  windy  hill. 

Dunno  about  Life — it's  jest  a  tramp  alone 

From  wakin'-time  to  doss. 
Dunno  about  Death — it's  jest  a  quiet  stone 

All  over-grey  wi'  moss. 

An*  why  I  live,  an*  why  the  old  world  spins, 

Are  things  I  never  knowed; 
My  mark's  the  gypsy  fires,  the  lonely  inns, 

An'  jest  the  dusty  road. 


VISION 

I  have  drunken  the  red  wine  and  flung  the  dice; 

Yet  once  in  the  noisy  ale-house  I  have  seen  and  heard 
The  dear  pale  lady  with  the  mournful  eyes, 

And  a  voice  like  that  of  a  pure  grey  cooing  bird. 

With  delicate  white  hands — white  hands  that  I  have  kist 
(Oh  frail  white  hands!) — she  soothed  my  aching  eyes; 

And  her  hair  fell  about  her  in  a  dim  clinging  mist, 
Like  smoke  from  a  golden  incense  burned  in  Paradise. 

With  gentle  loving  words,  like  shredded  balm  and  myrrh, 
She  healed  with  sweet  forgiveness  my  black  bitter  sins, 

Then  passed  into  the  night,  and  I  go  seeking  her 

Down  the  dark,  silent  streets,  past  the  warm,  lighted  inns. 


SPUNYARN 

Spunyarn,  spunyarn,  with  one  to  turn  the  crank, 
And  one  to  slather  the  spunyarn,  and  one  to  knot  the  hank; 
It's  an  easy  job  for  a  summer  watch,  and  a  pleasant  job  enough, 
To  twist  the  tarry  lengths  of  yarn  to  shapely  sailor  stuff. 

Life  is  nothing  but  spunyarn  on  a  winch  in  need  of  oil, 
Little  enough  is  twined  and  spun  but  fever-fret  and  moil. 
I  have  travelled  on  land  and  sea,  and  all  that  I  have  found 
Are  these  poor  songs  to  brace  the  arms  that  help  the  winches 
round. 

l43l 


PERSONAL 

Tramping  at  night  in  the  cold  and  wet,  I  passed  the  lighted  inn, 
And  an  old  tune,  a  sweet  tune,  was  being  played  within. 
It  was  full  of  the  laugh  of  the  leaves  and  the  song  the  wind  sings; 
It  brought  the  tears  and  the  choked  throat,  and  a  catch  to  the 
heart-strings. 

And  it  brought  a  bitter  thought  of  the  days  that  now  were 

dead  to  me, 

The  merry  days  in  the  old  home  before  I  went  to  sea — 
Days  that  were  dead  to  me  indeed.    I  bowed  my  head  to  the  rain, 
And  I  passed  by  the  lighted  inn  to  the  lonely  roads  again. 

ON  MALVERN  HILL 

A  wind  is  brushing  down  the  clover, 

It  sweeps  the  tossing  branches  bare, 
Blowing  the  poising  kestrel  over 

The  crumbling  ramparts  of  the  Caer. 

i 

It  whirls  the  scattered  leaves  before  us 

Along  the  dusty  road  to  home, 
Once  it  awakened  into  chorus 

The  heart-strings  in  the  ranks  of  Rome. 

There  by  the  gusty  coppice  border 
The  shrilling  trumpets  broke  the  halt, 

The  Roman  line,  the  Roman  order, 
Swayed  forwards  to  the  blind  assault. 
(44l 


ON  EASTNOR  KNOLL 

Spearman  and  charioteer  and  bowman 
Charged  and  were  scattered  into  spray, 

Savage  and  taciturn  the  Roman 
Hewed  upwards  in  the  Roman  way. 

There — in  the  twilight — where  the  cattle 
Are  lowing  home  across  the  fields, 

The  beaten  warriors  left  the  battle 
Dead  on  the  clansmen's  wicker  shields. 

The  leaves  whirl  in  the  wind's  riot 
Beneath  the  Beacon's  jutting  spur, 

Quiet  are  clan  and  chief,  and  quiet 
Centurion  and  signifer. 


ON  EASTNOR  KNOLL 

Silent  are  the  woods,  and  the  dim  green  boughs  are 
Hushed  in  the  twilight:  yonder,  in  the  path  through 
The  apple  orchard,  is  a  tired  plough-boy 
Calling  the  cows  home. 

A  bright  white  star  blinks,  the  pale  moon  rounds,  but 
Still  the  red,  lurid  wreckage  of  the  sunset 
Smoulders  in  smoky  fire,  and  burns  on 
The  misty  hill-tops. 

Ghostly  it  grows,  and  darker,  the  burning 
Fades  into  smoke,  and  now  the  gusty  oaks  are 
A  silent  army  of  phantoms  thronging 
A  land  of  shadows. 

[4Sl 


"REST  HER  SOUL,  SHE'S  DEAD" 

She  has  done  with  the  sea's  sorrow  and  all  the  world's  way 

And  the  wind's  grief; 
Strew  her  with  laurel,  cover  her  with  bay 

And  ivy-leaf. 

Let  the  slow  mournful  music  sound  before  her, 
Strew  the  white  flowers  about  the  bier,  and  o'er  her 

The  sleepy  poppies  red  beyond  belief. 

On  the  black  velvet  covering  her  eyes 

Let  the  dull  earth  be  thrown; 
Hers  is  the  mightier  silence  of  the  skies, 

And  long,  quiet  rest  alone. 
Over  the  pure,  dark,  wistful  eyes  of  her, 
O'er  all  the  human,  all  that  dies  of  her, 

Gently  let  flowers  be  strown. 

Lay  her  away  in  quiet  old  peaceful  earth 

(This  blossom  of  ours), 
She  has  done  with  the  world's  anger  and  the  world's  mirth, 

Sunshine  and  rain-showers; 
And  over  the  poor,  sad,  tired  face  of  her, 
In  the  long  grass  above  the  place  of  her 
(The  grass  which  hides  the  glory  and  the  grace  of  her), 

May  the  Spring  bring  the  flowers. 


[46! 


"ALL  YE  THAT  PASS  BY" 

On  the  long  dusty  ribbon  of  the  long  city  street, 
The  pageant  of  life  is  passing  me  on  multitudinous  feet, 
With  a  word  here  of  the  hills,  and  a  song  there  of  the  sea, 
And — the  great  movement  changes — the  pageant  passes  me. 

Faces — passionate  faces — of  men  I  may  not  know, 

They  haunt  me,  burn  me  to  the  heart,  as  I  turn  aside  to  go: 

The  king's  face  and  the  cur's  face,  and  the  face  of  the  stuffed 

swine, 
They  are  passing,  they  are  passing,  their  eyes  look  into  mine. 

I  never  can  tire  of  the  music  of  the  noise  of  many  feet, 
The  thrill  of  the  blood  pulsing,  the  tick  of  the  heart's  beat, 
Of  the  men  many  as  sands,  of  the  squadrons  ranked  and  massed 
Who  are  passing,  changing  always,  and  never  have  changed 
or  passed. 


[47] 


IN  MEMORY  OF  A.  P.  R. 

Once  in  the  windy  wintry  weather, 
The  road  dust  blowing  in  our  eyes, 

We  starved  or  tramped  or  slept  together 
Beneath  the  haystacks  and  the  skies; 

Until  the  tiring  tramp  was  over, 
And  then  the  call  for  him  was  blown, 

He  left  his  friend — his  fellow-rover — 
To  tramp  the  dusty  roads  alone. 

The  winds  wail  and  the  woods  are  yellow, 

The  hills  are  blotted  in  the  rain, 
"And  would  he  were  with  me,"  sighs  his  fellow, 

"With  me  upon  the  roads  again!" 


[48J 


TO-MORROW 

Oh  yesterday  the  cutting  edge  drank  thirstily  and  deep, 
The  upland  outlaws  ringed  us  in  and  herded  us  as  sheep, 
They  drove  us  from  the  stricken  field  and  bayed  us  into  keep; 

But  to-morrow 
By  the  living  God,  we'll  try  the  game  again! 

Oh  yesterday  our  little  troop  was  ridden  through  and  through, 
Our  swaying,  tattered  pennons  fled,  a  broken,  beaten  few, 
And  all  a  summer  afternoon  they  hunted  us  and  slew; 

But  to-morrow, 
By  the  living  God,  we'll  try  the  game  again! 

And  here  upon  the  turret-top  the  bale-fire  glowers  red, 

The  wake-lights  burn  and  drip  about  our  hacked,  disfigured 

dead, 
And  many  a  broken  heart  is  here  and  many  a  broken  head; 

But  to-morrow, 
By  the  living  God,  we'll  try  the  game  again! 


CAVALIER 

All  the  merry  kettle-drums  are  thudding  into  rhyme, 
Dust  is  swimming  dizzily  down  the  village  street, 

The  scabbards  are  clattering,  the  feathers  nodding  time, 
To  a  clink  of  many  horses'  shoes,  a  tramp  of  many  feet. 

Seven  score  of  Cavaliers  fighting  for  the  King, 
Trolling  lusty  stirrup-songs,  clamouring  for  wine, 

Riding  with  a  loose  rein,  marching  with  a  swing, 
Beneath  the  blue  bannerol  of  Rupert  of  the  Rhine. 

Hey  the  merry  company; — the  loud  fifes  playing — 
Blue  scarves  and  bright  steel  and  blossom  of  the  may, 

Roses  in  the  feathered  hats,  the  long  plumes  swaying, 
A  king's  son  ahead  of  them  showing  them  the  way. 


1 50! 


A  SONG  AT  PARTING 

The  tick  of  the  blood  is  settling  slow,  my  heart  will  soon  be 

still, 

And  ripe  and  ready  am  I  for  rest  in  the  grave  atop  the  hill; 
So  gather  me  up  and  lay  me  down,  for  ready  and  ripe  am  I, 
For  the  weary  vigil  with  sightless  eyes  that  may  not  see  the  sky. 

I  have  lived  my  life:  I  have  spilt  the  wine  that  God  the  Maker 

gave, 

So  carry  me  up  the  lonely  hill  and  lay  me  in  the  grave, 
And  cover  me  in  with  cleanly  mould  and  old  and  lichened  stones, 
In  a  place  where  ever  the  cry  of  the  wind  shall  thrill  my  sleepy 

bones. 

Gather  me  up  and  lay  me  down  with  an  old  song  and  a  prayer, 
Cover  me  in  with  wholesome  earth,  and  weep  and  leave  me 

there; 
And  get  you  gone  with  a  kindly  thought  and  an  old  tune  and  a 

sigh, 
And  leave  me  alone,  asleep,  at  rest,  for  ready  and  ripe  am  I. 


(Si? 


GLOSSARY 

Abaft  the  beam. — That  half  of  a  ship  included  between  her  amidship  section  and 

the  taffrail.     (For  "taffrail,"  see  below.) 
Abel  Brown. — An  unquotable  sea-song. 
Advance-note. — A  note  for  one  month's  wages  issued  to  sailors  on  their  signing 

a  ship's  articles. 

Belaying-pins. — Bars  of  iron  or  hard  wood  to  which  running  rigging  may  be 

secured  or  belayed. 

Belaying-pins,  from  their  handiness  and  peculiar  club-shape,  are  some- 
times used  as  bludgeons. 
Bloody. — An  intensive  derived  from  the  substantive  "blood,"  a  name  applied 

to  the  Bucks,  Scowrers,  and  Mohocks  of  the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth 

centuries. 
Blue  Peter. — A  blue  and  white  flag  hoisted  at  the  fore-trucks  of  ships  about  to 

sail. 
Bollard. — From  bdl  or  bole,  the  round  trunk  of  a  tree.    A  phallic  or  "  sparklet  "- 

shaped  ornament  of  the  dock-side,  of  assistance  to  mariners  in  warping 

into  or  out  of  dock. 

Bonded  Jacky. — Negro-head  tobacco  or  sweet  cake. 
Bull  of  Barney. — A  beast  mentioned  in  an  unquotable  sea-proverb. 
Bumpkin. — An  iron  bar  (projecting  out-board  from  the  ship's  side)  to  which 

the  lower  and  topsail  brace  blocks  are  sometimes  hooked. 

Cape  Horn  fever. — The  illness  proper  to  malingerers. 
Catted. — Said  of  an  anchor  when  weighed  and  secured  to  the  "cat-head." 
Chanty. — A  song  sung  to  lighten  labour  at  the  capstan  sheets,  and  halliards. 
The  soloist  is  known  as  the  chanty-man,  and  is  usually  a  person  of  some 
authority  in  the  fo'c's'le.    Many  chanties  are  of  great  beauty  and  extreme 
antiquity. 

Clipper-bow. — A  bow  of  delicate  curves  and  lines. 

Clout. — A  rag  or  cloth.    Also  a  blow: — "I  fetched  him  a  clout  i'  the  lug." 
Crimp. — A  sort  of  scoundrelly  land-shark  preying  upon  sailors. 

D.  B.  S. — Distressed  British  Sailor.    A  term  applied  to  those  who  are  invalided 
home  from  foreign  ports. 

lS3l 


SALT-WATER  BALLADS 

Dungaree. — A  cheap,  rough  thin  cloth  (generally  blue  or  brown),  woven,  I  am 
told,  of  coco-nut  fibre. 

Forward  or  Forrard. — Towards  the  bows. 

Fo'c's'le  (Forecastle). — The  deck-house  or  living-room  of  the  crew.  The  word 
is  often  used  to  indicate  the  crew,  or  those  members  of  it  described  by  pas- 
sengers as  the  "common  sailors." 

Fore-stay. — A  powerful  wire  rope  supporting  the  fore-mast  forward. 

Gaskets. — Ropes  or  plaited  lines  used  to  secure  the  sails  in  furling. 

Coneys. — Albatrosses. 

Guffy. — A  marine  or  jolly. 

Gullies. — Sea-gulls,  Cape  Horn  pigeons,  etc. 

Heave  and  pawl. — A  cry  of  encouragement  at  the  capstan. 
Hooker. — A  periphrasis  for  ship,  I  suppose  from  a  ship's  carrying  hooks  or 
anchors. 

Jack  or  Jackstay. — A  slender  iron  rail  running  along  the  upper  portions  of  the 
yards  in  some  ships. 

Leeward. — Pronounced  "looard."    That  quarter  to  which  the  wind  blows. 

Mainsail  haul. — An  order  in  tacking  ship  bidding  "swing  the  mainyards."  To 
loot,  steal,  or  "acquire." 

Main-shrouds. — Ropes,  usually  wire,  supporting  lateral  strains  upon  the  main- 
mast. 

Mollies. — Molly-hawks,  or  Fulmar  petrels.  Wide-winged  dusky  sea-fowls, 
common  in  high  latitudes,  oily  to  taste,  gluttonous.  Great  fishers  and 
garbage-eaters. 

Port  Mahon  Baboon,  or  Port  Mahon  Soger. — I  have  been  unable  to  discover 
either  the  origin  of  these  insulting  epithets  or  the  reasons  for  the  peculiar 
bitterness  with  which  they  sting  the  marine  recipient.  They  are  older 
than  Dana  (circa  1840). 

An  old  merchant  sailor,  now  dead,  once  told  me  that  Port  Mahon  was 
that  godless  city  from  which  the  Ark  set  sail,  in  which  case  the  name  may 
have  some  traditional  connection  with  that  evil  "Mahoun"  or  "Mahu," 
prince  of  darkness,  mentioned  by  Shakespeare  and  some  of  our  older  poets. 

[54] 


GLOSSARY 

The  real  Port  Mahon,  a  fine  harbour  in  Minorca,  wa«  taken  by  the 
French,  from  Admiral  Byng,  in  the  year  1756. 

I  think  that  the  phrases  originated  at  the  time  of  Byng's  consequent 
trial  and  execution. 
Purchase— See  "Tackle." 

Quidding. — Tobacco-chewing. 

Sails. — The  sail-maker. 

Santa  Cruz. — A   brand   of  rum. 

Scantling. — PI  an  ks. 

Soger. — A  laggard,  malingerer,  or  hang-back.    To  loaf  or  skulk  or  work  Tom 

Cox's  Traverse. 
Spunyarn. — A  three-strand  line  spun  out  of  old  rope-yarns  knotted  together. 

Most  sailing-ships  carry  a  spunyarn  winch,  and  the  spinning  of  such  yarn 

is  a  favourite  occupation  in  fine  weather. 
Stirrup. — A  short  rope  supporting  the  foot-rope  on  which  the  sailors  stand 

when  aloft  on  the  yards. 

Tack. — To  stay  or  'bout  ship.  A  reach  to  windward.  The  weather  lower  cor- 
ner of  a  course. 

Tackle. — Pronounced  taykle.  A  combination  of  pulleys  for  obtaining  of  arti- 
ficial power. 

Tafrail. — The  rail  or  bulwark  round  the  sternmost  end  of  a  ship's  poop  or 
after-deck. 

Trick. — The  ordinary  two-hour  spell  at  the  wheel  or  on  the  look-out. 

Windward  or  Weather. — That  quarter  from  which  the  wind  blows. 


(511 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

(FROM  "THE  STORY  OF  A  ROUND  HOUSE") 


BIOGRAPHY 

When  I  am  buried,  all  my  thoughts  and  acts 
Will  be  reduced  to  lists  of  dates  and  facts, 
And  long  before  this  wandering  flesh  is  rotten 
The  dates  which  made  me  will  be  all  forgotten; 
And  none  will  know  the  gleam  there  used  to  be 
About  the  feast  days  freshly  kept  by  me, 
But  men  will  call  the  golden  hour  of  bliss 
"About  this  time,"  or  "shortly  after  this." 

Men  do  not  heed  the  rungs  by  which  men  climb 
Those  glittering  steps,  those  milestones  upon  Time, 
Those  tombstones  of  dead  selves,  those  hours  of  birth, 
Those  moments  of  the  soul  in  years  of  earth 
They  mark  the  height  achieved,  the  main  result, 
The  power  of  freedom  in  the  perished  cult, 
The  power  of  boredom  in  the  dead  man's  deeds, 
Not  the  bright  moments  of  the  sprinkled  seeds. 

By  many  waters  and  on  many  ways 
I  have  known  golden  instants  and  bright  days; 
The  day  on  which,  beneath  an  arching  sail, 
I  saw  the  Cordilleras  and  gave  hail; 
The  summer  day  on  which  in  heart's  delight 
I  saw  the  Swansea  Mumbles  bursting  white, 
The  glittering  day  when  all  the  waves  wore  flags 
And  the  ship  Wanderer  came  with  sails  in  rags; 
That  curlew-calling  time  in  Irish  dusk 
When  life  became  more  splendid  than  its  husk, 

(591 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

When  the  rent  chapel  on  the  brae  at  Slains 

Shone  with  a  doorway  opening  beyond  brains; 

The  dawn  when,  with  a  brace-block's  creaking  cry, 

Out  of  the  mist  a  little  barque  slipped  by, 

Spilling  the  mist  with  changing  gleams  of  red, 

Then  gone,  with  one  raised  hand  and  one  turned  head; 

The  howling  evening  when  the  spindrift's  mists 

Broke  to  display  the  four  Evangelists, 

Snow-capped,  divinely  granite,  lashed  by  breakers, 

Wind-beaten  bones  of  long  since  buried  acres; 

The  night  alone  near  water  when  I  heard 

All  the  sea's  spirit  spoken  by  a  bird; 

The  English  dusk  when  I  beheld  once  more 

(With  eyes  so  changed)  the  ship,  the  citied  shore, 

The  lines  of  masts,  the  streets  so  cheerly  trod 

(In  happier  seasons)  and  gave  thanks  to  God. 

All  had  their  beauty,  their  bright  moments'  gift, 

Their  something  caught  from  Time,  the  ever-swift. 

All  of  those  gleams  were  golden;  but  life's  hands 

Have  given  more  constant  gifts  in  changing  lands, 

And  when  I  count  those  gifts,  I  think  them  such 

As  no  man's  bounty  could  have  bettered  much: 

The  gift  of  country  life,  near  hills  and  woods 

Where  happy  waters  sing  in  solitudes, 

The  gift  of  being  near  ships,  of  seeing  each  day 

A  city  of  ships  with  great  ships  under  weigh, 

The  great  street  paved  with  water,  filled  with  shipping, 

And  all  the  world's  flags  flying  and  seagulls  dipping. 

Yet  when  I  am  dust  my  penman  may  not  know 
Those  water-trampling  ships  which  made  me  glow, 
But  think  my  wonder  mad  and  fail  to  find 

[60] 


BIOGRAPHY 

Their  glory,  even  dimly,  from  my  mind, 
And  yet  they  made  me: 

not  alone  the  ships 

But  men  hard-palmed  from  tallying-on  to  whips, 
The  two  close  friends  of  nearly  twenty  years, 
Sea-followers  both,  sea-wrestlers  and  sea-peers, 
Whose  feet  with  mine  wore  many  a  bolt-head  bright 
Treading  the  decks  beneath  the  riding  light. 
Yet  death  will  make  that  warmth  of  friendship  cold 
And  who'll  know  what  one  said  and  what  one  told 
Our  hearts'  communion  and  the  broken  spells 
When  the  loud  call  blew  at  the  strike  of  bells? 
No  one,  I  know,  yet  let  me  be  believed 
A  soul  entirely  known  is  life  achieved. 

Years  blank  with  hardship  never  speak  a  word 
Live  in  the  soul  to  make  the  being  stirred, 
Towns  can  be  prisons  where  the  spirit  dulls 
Away  from  mates  and  ocean-wandering  hulls, 
Away  from  all  bright  water  and  great  hills 
And  sheep-walks  where  the  curlews  cry  their  fills, 
Away  in  towns,  where  eyes  have  nought  to  see 
But  dead  museums  and  miles  of  misery 
And  floating  life  unrooted  from  man's  need 
And  miles  of  fish-hooks  baited  to  catch  greed 
And  life  made  wretched  out  of  human  ken 
And  miles  of  shopping  women  served  by  men. 
So,  if  the  penman  sums  my  London  days 
Let  him  but  say  that  there  were  holy  ways, 
Dull  Bloomsbury  streets  of  dull  brick  mansions  old 
With  stinking  doors  where  women  stood  to  scold 
And  drunken  waits  at  Christmas  with  their  horn 

[61] 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

Droning  the  news,  in  snow,  that  Christ  was  born; 
And  windy  gas  lamps  and  the  wet  roads  shining 
And  that  old  carol  of  the  midnight  whining, 
And  that  old  room  (above  the  noisy  slum) 
Where  there  was  wine  and  fire  and  talk  with  some 
Under  strange  pictures  of  the  wakened  soul 
To  whom  this  earth  was  but  a  burnt-out  coal. 

O  Time,  bring  back  those  midnights  and  those  friends, 

Those  glittering  moments  that  a  spirit  lends 

That  all  may  be  imagined  from  the  flash 

The  cloud-hid  god-game  through  the  lightning  gash 

Those  hours  of  stricken  sparks  from  which  men  took 

Light  to  send  out  to  men  in  song  or  book. 

Those  friends  who  heard  St.  Pancras'  bells  strike  two 

Yet  stayed  until  the  barber's  cockerel  crew. 

Talking  of  noble  styles,  the  Frenchman's  best, 

The  thought  beyond  great  poets  not  expressed, 

The  glory  of  mood  where  human  frailty  failed, 

The  forts  of  human  light  not  yet  assailed, 

Till  the  dim  room  had  mind  and  seemed  to  brood 

Binding  our  wills  to  mental  brotherhood, 

Till  we  became  a  college,  and  each  night 

Was  discipline  and  manhood  and  delight, 

Till  our  farewells  and  winding  down  the  stairs 

At  each  grey  dawn  had  meaning  that  Time  spares, 

That  we,  so  linked,  should  roam  the  whole  world  round 

Teaching  the  ways  our  brooding  minds  had  found 

Making  that  room  our  Chapter,  our  one  mind 

Where  all  that  this  world  soiled  should  be  refined. 

Often  at  night  I  tread  those  streets  again 
And  see  the  alley  glimmering  in  the  rain, 

16*] 


BIOGRAPHY 

Yet  now  I  miss  that  sign  of  earlier  tramps 
A  house  with  shadows  of  plane-boughs  under  lamps, 
The  secret  house  where  once  a  beggar  stood 
Trembling  and  blind  to  show  his  woe  for  food. 
And  now  I  miss  that  friend  who  used  to  walk 
Home  to  my  lodgings  with  me,  deep  in  talk, 
Wearing  the  last  of  night  out  in  still  streets 
Trodden  by  us  and  policemen  on  their  beats 
And  cats,  but  else  deserted ;  now  I  miss 
That  lively  mind  and  guttural  laugh  of  his 
And  that  strange  way  he  had  of  making  gleam, 
Like  something  real,  the  art  we  used  to  dream. 
London  has  been  my  prison;  but  my  books 
Hills  and  great  waters,  labouring  men  and  brooks, 
Ships  and  deep  friendships  and  remembered  days 
Which  even  now  set  all  my  mind  ablaze 
As  that  June  day  when,  in  the  red  bricks'  chinks 
I  saw  the  old  Roman  ruins  white  with  pinks 
And  felt  the  hillside  haunted  even  then 
By  not  dead  memory  of  the  Roman  men. 
And  felt  the  hillside  thronged  by  souls  unseen 
Who  knew  the  interest  in  me  and  were  keen 
That  man  alive  should  understand  man  dead 
So  many  centuries  since  the  blood  was  shed. 
And  quickened  with  strange  hush  because  this  comer 
Sensed  a  strange  soul  alive  behind  the  summer. 
That  other  day  on  Ercall  when  the  stones 
Were  sunbleached  white,  like  long  unburied  bones, 
While  the  bees  droned  and  all  the  air  was  sweet 
From  honey  buried  underneath  my  feet, 
Honey  of  purple  heather  and  white  clover 
Sealed  in  its  gummy  bags  till  summer's  over. 

[63] 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

Then  other  days  by  water,  by  bright  sea, 

Clear  as  clean  glass  and  my  bright  friend  with  me, 

The  cove  clean  bottomed  where  we  saw  the  brown 

Red  spotted  plaice  go  skimming  six  feet  down 

And  saw  the  long  fronds  waving,  white  with  shells, 

Waving,  unfolding,  drooping,  to  the  swells; 

That  sadder  day  when  we  beheld  the  great 

And  terrible  beauty  of  a  Lammas  spate 

Roaring  white-mouthed  in  all  the  great  cliff's  gaps 

Headlong,  tree-tumbling  fury  of  collapse, 

While  drenching  clouds  drove  by  and  every  sense 

Was  water  roaring  or  rushing  or  in  offence, 

And  mountain  sheep  stood  huddled  and  blown  gaps  gleamed 

Where  torn  white  hair  of  torrents  shook  and  streamed. 

That  sadder  day  when  we  beheld  again 

A  spate  going  down  in  sunshine  after  rain, 

When  the  blue  reach  of  water  leaping  bright 

Was  one  long  ripple  and  clatter,  flecked  with  white. 

And  that  far  day,  that  never  blotted  page 

When  youth  was  bright  like  flowers  about  old  age 

Fair  generations  bringing  thanks  for  life 

To  that  old  kindly  man  and  trembling  wife 

After  their  sixty  years:  Time  never  made 

A  better  beauty  since  the  Earth  was  laid 

Than  that  thanksgiving  given  to  grey  hair 

For  the  great  gift  of  life  which  brought  them  there. 

Days  of  endeavour  have  been  good :  the  days 
Racing  in  cutters  for  the  comrade's  praise, 
The  day  they  led  my  cutter  at  the  turn 
Yet  could  not  keep  the  lead  and  dropped  astern, 
The  moment  in  the  spurt  when  both  boats'  oars 

[64] 


BIOGRAPHY 

Dipped  in  each  other's  wash  and  throats  grew  hoarse 

And  teeth  ground  into  teeth  and  both  strokes  quickened 

Lashing  the  sea,  and  gasps  came,  and  hearts  sickened 

And  coxswains  damned  us,  dancing,  banking  stroke, 

To  put  our  weights  on,  though  our  hearts  were  broke 

And  both  boats  seemed  to  stick  and  sea  seemed  glue, 

The  tide  a  mill  race  we  were  struggling  through 

And  every  quick  recover  gave  us  squints 

Of  them  still  there,  and  oar  tossed  water-glints 

And  cheering  came,  our  friends,  our  foemen  cheering, 

A  long,  wild,  rallying  murmur  on  the  hearing — 

"Port  Fore!"  and  "Starboard  Fore!"  "Port    Fore."  "Port 

Fore!" 

"Up  with  her,  Starboard,"  and  at  that  each  oar 
Lightened,  though  arms  were  bursting,  and  eyes  shut 
And  the  oak  stretchers  grunted  in  the  strut 
And  the  curse  quickened  from  the  cox,  our  bows 
Crashed,  and  drove  talking  water,  we  made  vows 
Chastity  vows  and  temperance;  in  our  pain 
We  numbered  things  we'd  never  eat  again 
If  we  could  only  win;  then  came  the  yell 
"Starboard,"  "Port  Fore,"  and  then  a  beaten  bell 
Rung  as  for  fire  to  cheer  us.    "Now."    Oars  bent 
Soul  took  the  looms  now  body's  bolt  was  spent, 
"Damn  it,  come  on  now,"  "On  now,"  "On  now,"  "Starboard." 
"Port  Fore."    "Up  with  her,  Port  ";  each  cutter  harboured 
Ten  eye-shut  painsick  strugglers,  "Heave,  oh,  heave," 
Catcalls  waked  echoes  like  a  shrieking  sheave. 
"Heave,"  and  I  saw  a  back,  then  two.    "Port  Fore." 
"Starboard."    "Come  on."    I  saw  the  midship  oar 
And  knew  we  had  done  them.     "  Port  Fore."    "  Starboard." 

"Now." 

[65] 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

I  saw  bright  water  spurting  at  their  bow 
Their  cox'  full  face  an  instant.    They  were  done. 
The  watchers'  cheering  almost  drowned  the  gun. 
We  had  hardly  strength  to  toss  our  oars;  our  cry 
Cheering  the  losing  cutter  was  a  sigh. 
Other  bright  days  of  action  have  seemed  great: 
Wild  days  in  a  pampero  off  the  Plate; 
Good  swimming  days,  at  Hog  Back  or  the  Coves 
Which  the  young  gannet  and  the  corbie  loves; 
Surf-swimming  between  rollers,  catching  breath 
Between  the  advancing  grave  and  breaking  death, 
Then  shooting  up  into  the  sunbright  smooth 
To  watch  the  advancing  roller  bare  her  tooth, 
And  days  of  labour  also,  loading,  hauling; 
Long  days  at  winch  or  capstan,  heaving,  pawling; 
The  days  with  oxen,  dragging  stone  from  blasting, 
And  dusty  days  in  mills,  and  hot  days  masting. 
Trucking  on  dust-dry  deckings  smooth  like  ice, 
And  hunts  in  mighty  wool-racks  after  mice; 
Mornings  with  buckwheat  when  the  fields  did  blanch 
With  White  Leghorns  come  from  the  chicken  ranch. 
Days  near  the  spring  upon  the  sunburnt  hill, 
Plying  the  maul  or  gripping  tight  the  drill. 
Delights  of  work  most  real,  delights  that  change 
The  headache  life  of  towns  to  rapture  strange 
Not  known  by  townsmen,  nor  imagined;  health 
That  puts  new  glory  upon  mental  wealth 
And  makes  the  poor  man  rich. 

But  that  ends,  too, 

Health  with  its  thoughts  of  life;  and  that  bright  view 
That  sunny  landscape  from  life's  peak,  that  glory, 
And  all  a  glad  man's  comments  on  life's  story 

[66] 


BIOGRAPHY 

And  thoughts  of  marvellous  towns  and  living  men 
And  what  pens  tell  and  all  beyond  the  pen 
End,  and  are  summed  in  words  so  truly  dead 
They  raise  no  image  of  the  heart  and  head, 
The  life,  the  man  alive,  the  friend  we  knew, 
The  mind  ours  argued  with  or  listened  to, 
None;  but  are  dead,  and  all  life's  keenness,  all, 
Is  dead  as  print  before  the  funeral, 
Even  deader  after,  when  the  dates  are  sought, 
And  cold  minds  disagree  with  what  we  thought. 
This  many  pictured  world  of  many  passions 
Wears  out  the  nations  as  a  woman  fashions, 
And  what  life  is  is  much  to  very  few, 
Men  being  so  strange,  so  mad,  and  what  men  do 
So  good  to  watch  or  share;  but  when  men  count 
Those  hours  of  life  that  were  a  bursting  fount, 
Sparkling  the  dusty  heart  with  living  springs, 
There  seems  a  world,  beyond  our  earthly  things, 
Gated  by  golden  moments,  each  bright  time 
Opening  to  show  the  city  white  like  lime, 
High  towered  and  many  peopled.    This  made  sure, 
Work  that  obscures  those  moments  seems  impure, 
Making  our  not-returning  time  of  breath 
Dull  with  the  ritual  and  records  of  death, 
That  frost  of  fact  by  which  our  wisdom  gives 
Correctly  stated  death  to  all  that  lives. 

Best  trust  the  happy  moments.    What  they  gave 
Makes  man  less  fearful  of  the  certain  grave, 
And  gives  his  work  compassion  and  new  eyes. 
The  days  that  make  us  happy  make  us  wise, 

[67] 


SHIPS 

I  cannot  tell  their  wonder  nor  make  known 
Magic  that  once  thrilled  through  me  to  the  bone, 
But  all  men  praise  some  beauty,  tell  some  tale, 
Vent  a  high  mood  which  makes  the  rest  seem  pale, 
Pour  their  heart's  blood  to  flourish  one  green  leaf, 
Follow  some  Helen  for  her  gift  of  grief, 
And  fail  in  what  they  mean,  whate'er  they  do: 
You  should  have  seen,  man  cannot  tell  to  you 
The  beauty  of  the  ships  of  that  my  city. 
That  beauty  now  is  spoiled  by  the  sea's  pity; 
For  one  may  haunt  the  pier  a  score  of  times, 
Hearing  St.  Nicholas  bells  ring  out  the  chimes, 
Yet  never  see  those  proud  ones  swaying  home 
With  mainyards  backed  and  bows  a  cream  of  foam, 
Those  bows  so  lovely-curving,  cut  so  fine, 
Those  coulters  of  the  many-bubbled  brine, 
As  once,  long  since,  when  all  the  docks  were  filled 
With  that  sea-beauty  man  has  ceased  to  build. 

Yet,  though  their  splendour  may  have  ceased  to  be, 
Each  played  her  sovereign  part  in  making  me; 
Now  I  return  my  thanks  with  heart  and  lips 
For  the  great  queenliness  of  all  those  ships. 

And  first  the  first  bright  memory,  still  so  clear, 
An  autumn  evening  in  a  golden  year, 
When  in  the  last  lit  moments  before  dark 
The  Chepica,  a  steel-grey  lovely  barque, 
[68] 


SHIPS 

Came  to  an  anchor  near  us  on  the  flood, 
Her  trucks  aloft  in  sun-glow  red  as  blood. 

Then  come  so  many  ships  that  I  could  fill 

Three  docks  with  their  fair  hulls  remembered  still, 

Each  with  her  special  memory's  special  grace, 

Riding  the  sea,  making  the  waves  give  place 

To  delicate  high  beauty;  man's  best  strength, 

Noble  in  every  line  in  all  their  length. 

Ailsa,  Genista,  ships,  with  long  jibbooms, 

The  Wanderer  with  great  beauty  and  strange  dooms, 

Liverpool  (mightiest  then)  superb,  sublime, 

The  California  huge,  as  slow  as  time. 

The  Copley  swift,  the  perfect  /.  T.  North, 

The  loveliest  barque  my  city  has  sent  forth, 

Dainty  John  Lockett  well  remembered  yet, 

The  splendid  Argus  with  her  skysail  set, 

Stalwart  Drumcliff,  white-blocked,  majestic  Sierras, 

Divine  bright  ships,  the  water's  standard-bearers; 

Melpomene,  Euphrosyne,  and  their  sweet 

Sea-troubling  sisters  of  the  Fernie  fleet; 

Corunna  (in  whom  my  friend  died)  and  the  old 

Long  since  loved  Esmeralda  long  since  sold. 

Centurion  passed  in  Rio,  Glaucus  spoken, 

Aladdin  burnt,  the  Bidston  water-broken, 

Yola,  in  whom  my  friend  sailed,  Dazvpool  trim, 

Fierce-bowed  Egeria  plunging  to  the  swim, 

Stanmore  wide-sterned,  sweet  Cupica,  tall  Bard, 

Queen  in  all  harbours  with  her  moon  sail  yard. 

Though  I  tell  many,  there  must  still  be  others, 
McVickar  Marshall's  ships  and  Fernie  Brothers', 

[69] 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

Lochs,  Counties,  Shires,  Drums,  the  countless  lines 
Whose  house-flags  all  were  once  familiar  signs 
At  high  main-trucks  on  Mersey's  windy  ways 
When  sunlight  made  the  wind-white  water  blaze. 
Their  names  bring  back  old  mornings,  when  the  docks 
Shone  with  their  house-flags  and  their  painted  blocks, 
Their  raking  masts  below  the  Custom  House 
And  all  the  marvellous  beauty  of  their  bows. 

Familiar  steamers,  too,  majestic  steamers, 

Shearing  Atlantic  roller-tops  to  streamers, 

Umbria,  Etruria,  noble,  still  at  sea, 

The  grandest,  then,  that  man  had  brought  to  be. 

Majestic,  City  of  Paris,  City  of  Rome, 

Forever  jealous  racers,  out  and  home. 

The  Alfred  Holt's  blue  smoke-stacks  down  the  stream, 

The  fair  Loanda  with  her  bows  a-cream. 

Booth  liners,  Anchor  liners,  Red  Star  liners, 

The  marks  and  styles  of  countless  ship-designers, 

The  Magdalena,  Puno,  Potosi, 

Lost  Cotopaxi,  all  well  known  to  me. 

These  splendid  ships,  each  with  her  grace,  her  glory, 
Her  memory  of  old  song  or  comrade's  story, 
Still  in  my  mind  the  image  of  life's  need, 
Beauty  in  hardest  action,  beauty  indeed. 
"They  built  great  ships  and  sailed  them"  sounds  most  brave 
Whatever  arts  we  have  or  fail  to  have; 
I  touch  my  country's  mind,  I  come  to  grips 
With  half  her  purpose,  thinking  of  these  ships 
That  art  untouched  by  softness,  all  that  line 
Drawn  ringing  hard  to  stand  the  test  of  brine, 

[70] 


TRUTH 

That  nobleness  and  grandeur,  all  that  beauty 
Born  of  a  manly  life  and  bitter  duty, 
That  splendour  of  fine  bows  which  yet  could  stand 
The  shock  of  rollers  never  checked  by  land. 
That  art  of  masts,  sail  crowded,  fit  to  break, 
Yet  stayed  to  strength  and  backstayed  into  rake, 
The  life  demanded  by  that  art,  the  keen 
Eye-puckered,  hard-case  seamen,  silent,  lean, — 
They  are  grander  things  than  all  the  art  of  towns, 
Their  tests  are  tempests  and  the  sea  that  drowns, 
They  are  my  country's  line,  her  great  art  done 
By  strong  brains  labouring  on  the  thought  unwon, 
They  mark  our  passage  as  a  race  of  men, 
Earth  will  not  see  such  ships  as  those  again. 


TRUTH 

Man  with  his  burning  soul 
Has  but  an  hour  of  breath 
To  build  a  ship  of  Truth 
In  which  his  soul  may  sail, 
Sail  on  the  sea  of  death. 
For  death  takes  toll 
Of  beauty,  courage,  youth, 
Of  all  but  Truth. 

Life's  city  ways  are  dark, 
Men  mutter  by;  the  wells 
Of  the  great  waters  moan. 
O  death,  O  sea,  O  tide, 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

The  waters  moan  like  bells. 
No  light,  no  mark, 
The  soul  goes  out  alone 
On  seas  unknown. 

Stripped  of  all  purple  robes, 

Stripped  of  all  golden  lies, 

I  will  not  be  afraid. 

Truth  will  preserve  through  death; 

Perhaps  the  stars  will  rise, 

The  stars  like  globes. 

The  ship  my  striving  made 

May  see  night  fade. 


THEY  CLOSED  HER  EYES 

FROM  THE    SPANISH   OF   DON   GUSTAVO   A.    B^CQUER 

They  closed  her  eyes, 
They  were  still  open; 
They  hid  her  face 
With  a  white  linen, 
And,  some  sobbing, 
Others  in  silence, 
From  the  sad  bedroom 
All  came  away. 

The  night-light  in  a  dish 
Burned  on  the  floor, 
It  flung  on  the  wall 
The  bed's  shadow* 
(72} 


THEY  CLOSED  HER  EYES 

And  in  that  shadow 
One  saw  sometimes 
Drawn  in  sharp  line 
The  body's  shape. 

The  day  awakened 
At  its  first  whiteness 
With  its  thousand  noises; 
The  town  awoke 
Before  that  contrast 
Of  life  and  strangeness, 
Of  light  and  darkness. 
I  thought  a  moment 

My  God,  how  lonely 

The  dead  are! 

From  the  house,  shoulder-high 
To  church  they  bore  her, 
And  in  a  chapel 
They  left  her  bier. 
There  they  surrounded 
Her  pale  body 
With  yellow  candles 
And  black  stuffs. 

At  the  last  stroke 
Of  the  ringing  for  the  souls 
An  old  crone  finished 
Her  last  prayers. 
She  crossed  the  narrow  nave; 
The  doors  moaned, 
And  the  holy  place 
Remained  deserted. 
[731 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

From  a  clock  one  heard 
The  measured  ticking, 
And  from  some  candles 
The  guttering. 
All  things  there 
Were  so  grim  and  sad, 
So  dark  and  rigid, 
That  I  thought  a  moment) 

My  God,  how  lonely 

The  dead  are! 

From  the  high  belfry 
The  tongue  of  iron 
Clanged,  giving  out 
His  sad  farewell. 
Crape  on  their  clothes, 
Her  friends  and  kindred 
Passed  in  a  row, 
Making  procession. 

In  the  last  vault, 
Dark  and  narrow, 
The  pickaxe  opened 
A  niche  at  one  end; 
There  they  laid  her  down. 
Soon  they  bricked  the  place  up, 
And  with  a  gesture 
Bade  grief  farewell. 

Pickaxe  on  shoulder 
The  grave-digger, 
Singing  between  his  teeth, 
Passed  out  of  sight. 
[74l 


THEY  CLOSED  HER  EYES 

The  night  came  down; 
It  was  all  silent, 
Lost  in  the  shadows 
I  thought  a  moment. 

My  God,  how  lonely 

The  dead  are! 

In  the  long  nights 
Of  bitter  winter, 
When  the  wind  makes 
The  rafters  creak, 
When  the  violent  rain 
Lashes  the  windows, 
Lonely,  I  remember 
That  poor  girl. 

There  falls  the  rain 
With  its  noise  eternal. 
There  the  north  wind 
Fights  with  the  rain. 
Stretched  in  the  hollow 
Of  the  damp  bricks 
Perhaps  her  bones 
Freeze  with  the  cold. 

Does  the  dust  return  to  dust? 
Does  the  soul  fly  to  heaven  ? 
Is  all  vile  matter, 
Rottenness,  filthiness? 
I  know  not.    But 
There  is  something — something 
That  I  cannot  explain, 
[7Sl 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

Something  that  gives  us 
Loathing,  terror, 
To  leave  the  dead 
So  alone,  so  wretched. 


THE  HARP 

FROM  THE    SPANISH  OF   DON   GUSTAVO   A.    BfeCQUER 

In  a  dark  corner  of  the  room, 
Perhaps  forgotten  by  its  owner, 
Silent  and  dim  with  dust, 
I  saw  the  harp. 

How  many  musics  slumbered  in  its  strings, 
As  the  bird  sleeps  in  the  branches, 
Waiting  the  snowy  hand 
That  could  awaken  them. 

Ah  me,  I  thought,  how  many,  many  times 
Genius  thus  slumbers  in  a  human  soul, 
Waiting,  as  Lazarus  waited,  for  a  voice 
To  bid  him  "Rise  and  walk." 


[76] 


SONNET 

FROM  THE   SPANISH   OF   DON   FRANCISCO   DE   QUEVEDO 

I  saw  the  ramparts  of  my  native  land, 
One  time  so  strong,  now  dropping  in  decay, 
Their  strength  destroyed  by  this  new  age's  way 
That  has  worn  out  and  rotted  what  was  grand. 
I  went  into  the  fields:  there  I  could  see 
The  sun  drink  up  the  waters  newly  thawed, 
And  on  the  hills  the  moaning  cattle  pawed; 
Their  miseries  robbed  the  day  of  light  for  me. 

I  went  into  my  house:  I  saw  how  spotted, 
Decaying  things  made  that  old  home  their  prize. 
My  withered  walking-staff  had  come  to  bend; 
I  felt  the  age  had  won;  my  sword  was  rotted, 
And  there  was  nothing  on  which  I  set  my  eyes 
That  was  not  a  reminder  of  the  end. 


SONNET  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  HIS  WIFE 

FROM  THE  PORTUGUESE  OF  ANTONIO  DE  FERREIRO 

That  blessed  sunlight  that  once  showed  to  me 
My  way  to  heaven  more  plain  more  certainly, 
And  with  her  bright  beam  banished  utterly 
All  trace  of  mortal  sorrow  far  from  me, 
[77] 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

Has  gone  from  me,  has  left  her  prison  sad, 
And  I  am  blind  and  alone  and  gone  astray, 
Like  a  lost  pilgrim  in  a  desert  way 
Wanting  the  blessed  guide  that  once  he  had. 

Thus  with  a  spirit  bowed  and  mind  a  blur 
I  trace  the  holy  steps  where  she  has  gone, 
By  valleys  and  by  meadows  and  by  mountains, 
And  everywhere  I  catch  a  glimpse  of  her. 
She  takes  me  by  the  hand  and  leads  me  on, 
And  my  eyes  follow  her,  my  eyes  made  fountains. 


SONG 

One  sunny  time  in  May 
When  lambs  were  sporting, 
The  sap  ran  in  the  spray 
And  I  went  courting, 
And  all  the  apple  boughs 
Were  bright  with  blossom, 
I  picked  an  early  rose 
For  my  love's  bosom. 

And  then  I  met  her  friend, 
Down  by  the  water, 
Who  cried  "She's  met  her  end, 
That  grey-eyed  daughter; 
That  voice  of  hers  is  stilled 
Her  beauty  broken." 
O  me,  my  love  is  killed, 
My  love  unspoken. 
[781 


THE  BALLAD  OF  SIR  BORS 

She  was  too  sweet,  too  dear, 

To  die  so  cruel, 

O  Death,  why  leave  me  here 

And  take  my  jewel? 

Her  voice  went  to  the  bone, 

So  true,  so  ringing, 

And  now  I  go  alone, 

Winter  or  springing. 


THE  BALLAD  CF  SIR  BORS 

Would  I  could  win  some  quiet  and  rest,  and  a  little  ease, 

In  the  cool  grey  hush  of  the  dusk,  in  the  dim  green  place  of  the 

trees, 

Where  the  birds  are  singing,  singing,  singing,  crying  aloud 
The  song  of  the  red,  red  rose  that  blossoms  beyond  the  seas. 

Would  I  could  see  it,  the  rose,  when  the  light  begins  to  fail, 
And  a  lone  white  star  in  the  West  is  glimmering  on  the  mail; 
The  red,  red  passionate  rose  of  the  sacred  blood  of  the  Christ, 
In  the  shining  chalice  of  God,  the  cup  of  the  Holy  Grail. 

The  dusk  comes  gathering  grey,  and  the  darkness  dims  the  West, 
The  oxen  low  to  the  byre,  and  all  bells  ring  to  rest; 
But  I  ride  over  the  moors,  for  the  dusk  still  bides  and  waits, 
That  brims  my  soul  with  the  glow  of  the  rose  that  ends  the 
Quest. 

My  horse  is  spavined  and  ribbed,  and  his  bones  come  through 

his  hide, 

My  sword  is  rotten  with  rust,  but  I  shake  the  reins  and  ride, 

[79l 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

For  the  bright  white  birds  of  God  that  nest  in  the  rose  have 

called, 
And  never  a  township  now  is  a  town  where  I  can  bide. 

It  will  happen  at  last,  at  dusk,  as  my  horse  limps  down  the  fell, 
A  star  will  glow  like  a  note  God  strikes  on  a  silver  bell, 
And  the  bright  white  birds  of  God  will  carry  my  soul  to  Christ, 
And  the  sight  of  the  Rose,  the  Rose,  will  pay  for  the  years  of 
hell. 


SPANISH  WATERS 

Spanish  waters,  Spanish  waters,  you  are  ringing  in  my  ears, 
Like  a  slow  sweet  piece  of  music  from  the  grey  forgotten 

years; 
Telling  tales,  and  beating  tunes,  and  bringing  weary  thoughts 

tome 
Of  the  sandy  beach  at  Muertos,  where  I  would  that  I  could  be. 

There's  a  surf  breaks  on  Los  Muertos,  and  it  never  stops  to  roar, 
And  it's  there  we  came  to  anchor,  and  it's  there  we  went  ashore, 
Where  the  blue  lagoon  is  silent  amid  snags  of  rotting  trees, 
Dropping  like  the  clothes  of  corpses  cast  up  by  the  seas. 

We  anchored  at  Los  Muertos  when  the  dipping  sun  was  red, 
We  left  her  half-a-mile  to  sea,  to  west  of  Nigger  Head; 
And  before  the  mist  was  on  the  Cay,  before  the  day  was  done, 
We  were  all  ashore  on  Muertos  with  the  gold  that  we  had  won. 

[80] 


SPANISH  WATERS 

We  bore  it  through  the  marshes  in  a  half-score  battered  chests, 
Sinking,  in  the  sucking  quagmires,  to  the  sunburn  on  our 

breasts, 
Heaving  over  tree-trunks,  gasping,  damning  at  the  flies  and 

heat, 
Longing  for  a  long  drink,  out  of  silver,  in  the  ship's  cool  lazareet. 

The  moon  came  white  and  ghostly  as  we  laid  the  treasure  down, 
There  was  gear  there'd  make  a  beggarman  as  rich  as  Lima  Town, 
Copper  charms  and  silver  trinkets  from  the  chests  of  Spanish 

crews, 
Gold  doubloons  and  double  moydores,  louis  d'ors  and  portagues, 

Clumsy  yellow-metal  earrings  from  the  Indians  of  Brazil, 
Uncut  emeralds  out  of  Rio,  bezoar  stones  from  Guayaquil; 
Silver,  in  the  crude  and  fashioned,  pots  of  old  Arica  bronze, 
Jewels  from  the  bones  of  Incas  desecrated  by  the  Dons. 

We  smoothed  the  place  with  mattocks,  and  we  took  and  blazed 

the  tree, 
Which  marks  yon  where  the  gear  is  hid  that  none  will  ever 

see, 

And  we  laid  aboard  the  ship  again,  and  south  away  we  steers, 
Through  the  loud  surf  of  Los  Muertos  which  is  beating  in 

my  ears. 

I'm  the  last  alive  that  knows  it.    All  the  rest  have  gone  their 

ways 

Killed,  or  died,  or  come  to  anchor  in  the  old  Mulatas  Cays, 
And  I  go  singing,  riddling,  old  and  starved  and  in  despair, 
And  I  know  where  all  that  gold  is  hid,  if  I  were  only  there. 

[81] 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

It's  not  the  way  to  end  it  all.    I'm  old,  and  nearly  blind, 
And  an  old  man's  past's  a  strange  thing,  for  it  never  leaves 

his  mind. 
And  I  see  in  dreams,  awhiles,  the  beach,  the  sun's  disc  dipping 

red, 
And  the  tall  ship,  under  topsails,  swaying  in  past  Nigger  Head. 

I'd  be  glad  to  step  ashore  there.  Glad  to  take  a  pick  and  go 
To  the  lone  blazed  coco-palm  tree  in  the  place  no  others  know, 
And  lift  the  gold  and  silver  that  has  mouldered  there  for  years 
By  the  loud  surf  of  Los  Muertos  which  is  beating  in  my  ears. 


CARGOES 

Quinquireme  of  Nineveh  from  distant  Ophir, 

Rowing  home  to  haven  in  sunny  Palestine, 

With  a  cargo  of  ivory, 

And  apes  and  peacocks, 

Sandalwood,  cedarwood,  and  sweet  white  wine. 

Stately  Spanish  galleon  coming  from  the  Isthmus, 

Dipping  through  the  Tropics  by  the  palm-green  shores, 

With  a  cargo  of  diamonds, 

Emeralds,  amethysts, 

Topazes,  and  cinnamon,  and  gold  moidores. 

Dirty  British  coaster  with  a  salt-caked  smoke  stack, 
Butting  through  the  Channel  in  the  mad  March  days, 
With  a  cargo  of  Tyne  coal, 
Road-rails,  pig-lead, 

Firewood,  iron-ware,  and  cheap  tin  trays. 

(82] 


CAPTAIN  STRATTON'S  FANCY 

Oh  some  are  fond  of  red  wine,  and  some  are  fond  of  white, 
And  some  are  all  for  dancing  by  the  pale  moonlight; 
But  rum  alone's  the  tipple,  and  the  heart's  delight 
Of  the  old  bold  mate  of  Henry  Morgan. 

Oh  some  are  fond  of  Spanish  wine,  and  some  are  fond  of  French, 
And  some'll  swallow  tay  and  stuff  fit  only  for  a  wench; 
But  I'm  for  right  Jamaica  till  I  roll  beneath  the  bench, 
Says  the  old  bold  mate  of  Henry  Morgan. 

Oh  some  are  for  the  lily,  and  some  are  for  the  rose, 

But  I  am  for  the  sugar-cane  that  in  Jamaica  grows; 

For  it's  that  that  makes  the  bonny  drink  to  warm  my  copper 

nose, 
Says  the  old  bold  mate  of  Henry  Morgan. 

Oh  some  are  fond  of  fiddles,  and  a  song  well  sung, 

And  some  are  all  for  music  for  to  lilt  upon  the  tongue; 

But  mouths  were  made  for  tankards,  and  for  sucking  at  the 

bung, 
Says  the  old  bold  mate  of  Henry  Morgan. 

Oh  some  are  fond  of  dancing,  and  some  are  fond  of  dice, 
And  some  are  all  for  red  lips,  and  pretty  lasses'  eyes; 
But  a  right  Jamaica  puncheon  is  a  finer  prize 
To  the  old  bold  mate  of  Henry  Morgan. 

[83] 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

Oh  some  that's  good  and  godly  ones  they  hold  that  it's  a  sin 
To  troll  the  jolly  bowl  around,  and  let  the  dollars  spin; 
But  I'm  for  toleration  and  for  drinking  at  an  inn, 
Says  the  old  bold  mate  of  Henry  Morgan. 

Oh  some  are  sad  and  wretched  folk  that  go  in  silken  suits, 
And  there's  a  mort  of  wicked  rogues  that  live  in  good  reputes; 
So  I'm  for  drinking  honestly,  and  dying  in  my  boots, 
Like  an  old  bold  mate  of  Henry  Morgan. 


AN  OLD  SONG  RE-SUNG 

I  saw  a  ship  a-sailing,  a-sailing,  a-sailing, 
With  emeralds  and  rubies  and  sapphires  in  her  hold; 
And  a  bosun  in  a  blue  coat  bawling  at  the  railing, 
Piping  through  a  silver  call  that  had  a  chain  of  gold; 
The  summer  wind  was  failing  and  the  tall  ship  rolled. 

I  saw  a  ship  a-steering,  a-steering,  a-steering, 

With  roses  in  red  thread  worked  upon  her  sails; 

With  sacks  of  purple  amethysts,  the  spoils  of  buccaneering, 

Skins  of  musky  yellow  wine,  and  silks  in  bales, 

Her  merry  men  were  cheering,  hauling  on  the  brails. 

I  saw  a  ship  a-sinking,  a-sinking,  a-sinking, 
With  glittering  sea-water  splashing  on  her  decks, 
With  seamen  in  her  spirit-room  singing  songs  and  drinking, 
Pulling  claret  bottles  down,  and  knocking  off  the  necks, 
The  broken  glass  was  chinking  as  she  sank  among  the  wrecks. 

[84] 


ST.  MARY'S  BELLS 

It's  pleasant  in  Holy  Mary 

By  San  Marie  lagoon, 

The  bells  they  chime  and  jingle 

From  dawn  to  afternoon. 

They  rhyme  and  chime  and  mingle, 

They  pulse  and  boom  and  beat, 

And  the  laughing  bells  are  gentle 

And  the  mournful  bells  are  sweet. 

Oh,  who  are  the  men  that  ring  them, 
The  bells  of  San  Marie, 
Oh,  who  but  sonsie  seamen 
Come  in  from  over  sea, 
And  merrily  in  the  belfries 
They  rock  and  sway  and  hale, 
And  send  the  bells  a-j  angle, 
And  down  the  lusty  ale. 

It's  pleasant  in  Holy  Mary 

To  hear  the  beaten  bells 

Come  booming  into  music, 

Which  throbs,  and  clangs,  and  swells, 

From  sunset  till  the  daybreak, 

From  dawn  to  afternoon. 

In  port  of  Holy  Mary 

On  San  Marie  lagoon. 


[85] 


LONDON  TOWN 

Oh  London  Town's  a  fine  town,  and  London  sights  are  rare, 
And  London  ale  is  right  ale,  and  brisk's  the  London  air, 
And  busily  goes  the  world  there,  but  crafty  grows  the  mind, 
And  London  Town  of  all  towns  I'm  glad  to  leave  behind. 

Then  hey  for  croft  and  hop-yard,  and  hill,  and  field,  and  pond, 
With  Bredon  Hill  before  me  and  Malvern  Hill  beyond. 
The  hawthorn  white  i'  the  hedgerow,  and  all  the  spring's  attire 
In  the  comely  land  of  Teme  and  Lugg,  and  Clent,  and  Clee, 
and  Wyre. 

Oh  London  girls  are  brave  girls,  in  silk  and  cloth  o'  gold, 
And  London  shops  are  rare  shops,  where  gallant  things  are  sold, 
And  bonnily  clinks  the  gold  there,  but  drowsily  blinks  the  eye, 
And  London  Town  of  all  towns  I'm  glad  to  hurry  by. 

Then,  hey  for  covert  and  woodland,  and  ash  and  elm  and  oak, 
Tewkesbury  inns,  and  Malvern  roofs,  and  Worcester  chimney 

smoke, 

The  apple  trees  in  the  orchard,  the  cattle  in  the  byre, 
And  all  the  land  from  Ludlow  town  to  Bredon  church's  spire. 

Oh  London  tunes  are  new  tunes,  and  London  books  are  wise, 
And  London  plays  are  rare  plays,  and  fine  to  country  eyes, 
But  craftily  fares  the  knave  there,  and  wickedly  fares  the  Jew, 
And  London  Town  of  all  towns  I'm  glad  to  hurry  through. 

[86] 


THE  EMIGRANT 

So  hey  for  the  road,  the  west  road,  by  mill  and  forge  and  fold, 
Scent  of  the  fern  and  song  of  the  lark  by  brook,  and  field,  and 

wold, 
To  the  comely  folk  at  the  hearth-stone  and  the  talk  beside  the 

fire, 
In  the  hearty  land,  where  I  was  bred,  my  land  of  heart's  desire. 


THE  EMIGRANT 

Going  by  Daly's  shanty  I  heard  the  boys  within 

Dancing  the  Spanish  hornpipe  to  Driscoll's  violin, 

I  heard  the  sea-boots  shaking  the  rough  planks  of  the  floor, 

But  I  was  going  westward,  I  hadn't  heart  for  more. 

All  down  the  windy  village  the  noise  rang  in  my  ears, 
Old  sea  boots  stamping,  shuffling,  it  brought  the  bitter  tears, 
The  old  tune  piped  and  quavered,  the  lilts  came  clear  and  strong, 
But  I  was  going  westward,  I  couldn't  join  the  song. 

There  were  the  grey  stone  houses,  the  night  wind  blowing  keen, 
The  hill-sides  pale  with  moonlight,  the  young  corn  springing 

green, 

The  hearth  nooks  lit  and  kindly,  with  dear  friends  good  to  see, 
But  I  was  going  westward,  and  the  ship  waited  me. 


[87] 


PORT  OF  HOLY  PETER 

The  blue  laguna  rocks  and  quivers, 

Dull  gurgling  eddies  twist  and  spin, 
The  climate  does  for  people's  livers, 
It's  a  nasty  place  to  anchor  in 
Is  Spanish  port, 
Fever  port, 
Port  of  Holy  Peter. 

The  town  begins  on  the  sea-beaches, 

And  the  town's  mad  with  the  stinging  flies, 
The  drinking  water's  mostly  leeches, 
It's  a  far  remove  from  Paradise 
Is  Spanish  port, 
Fever  port, 
Port  of  Holy  Peter. 

There's  sand-bagging  and  throat-slitting, 

And  quiet  graves  in  the  sea  slime, 
Stabbing,  of  course,  and  rum-hitting, 
Dirt,  and  drink,  and  stink,  and  crime, 
In  Spanish  port, 
Fever  port, 
Port  of  Holy  Peter. 

All  the  day  the  wind's  blowing 

From  the  sick  swamp  below  the  hills, 

All  the  night  the  plague's  growing, 
And  the  dawn  brings  the  fever  chills, 
[88J 


BEAUTY 

In  Spanish  port, 

Fever  port, 

Port  of  Holy  Peter. 

You  get  a  thirst  there's  no  slaking 

You  get  the  chills  and  fever-shakes, 
Tongue  yellow  and  head  aching, 

And  then  the  sleep  that  never  wakes. 
And  all  the  year  the  heat's  baking, 
The  sea  rots  and  the  earth  quakes, 
In  Spanish  port, 
Fever  port, 
Port  of  Holy  Peter. 


BEAUTY 

I  have  seen  dawn  and  sunset  on  moors  and  windy  hills 
Coming  in  solemn  beauty  like  slow  old  tunes  of  Spain: 
I  have  seen  the  lady  April  bringing  the  daffodils, 
Bringing  the  springing  grass  and  the  soft  warm  April  rain. 

I  have  heard  the  song  of  the  blossoms  and  the  old  chant  of  the 

sea, 
And  seen  strange  lands  from  under  the  arched  white  sails  of 

ships; 

But  the  loveliest  things  of  beauty  God  ever  has  shown  to  me, 
Are  her  voice,  and  her  hair,  and  eyes,  and  the  dear  red  curve 

of  her  lips. 


THE  SEEKERS 

Friends  and  loves  we  have  none,  nor  wealth  nor  blessed  abode, 
But  the  hope  of  the  City  of  God  at  the  other  end  of  the  road. 

Not  for  us  are  content,  and  quiet,  and  peace  of  mind, 
For  we  go  seeking  a  city  that  we  shall  never  find. 

There  is  no  solace  on  earth  for  us — for  such  as  we — 
Who  search  for  a  hidden  city  that  we  shall  never  see. 

Only  the  road  and  the  dawn,  the  sun,  the  wind,  and  the  rain, 
And  the  watch  fire  under  stars,  and  sleep,  and  the  road  again. 

We  seek  the  City  of  God,  and  the  haunt  where  beauty  dwells, 
And  we  find  the  noisy  mart  and  the  sound  of  burial  bells. 

Never  the  golden  city,  where  radiant  people  meet, 
But  the  dolorous  town  where  mourners  are  going  about  the 
street. 

We  travel  the  dusty  road  till  the  light  of  the  day  is  dim, 
And  sunset  shows  us  spires  away  on  the  world's  rim. 

We  travel  from  dawn  to  dusk,  till  the  day  is  past  and  by, 
Seeking  the  Holy  City  beyond  the  rim  of  the  sky. 

Friends  and  loves  we  have  none,  nor  wealth  nor  blest  abode, 
But  the  hope  of  the  City  of  God  at  the  other  end  of  the  road. 

[90! 


PRAYER 

When  the  last  sea  is  sailed,  when  the  last  shallow's  charted, 
Yv:hen  the  last  field  is  reaped,  and  the  last  harvest  stored, 
When  the  last  fire  is  out  and  the  last  guest  departed, 
Grant  the  last  prayer  that  I  shall  pray,  be  good  to  me,  O  Lord. 

And  let  me  pass  in  a  night  at  sea,  a  night  of  storm  and  thunder, 
In  the  loud  crying  of  the  wind  through  sail  and  rope  and  spar, 
Send  me  a  ninth  great  peaceful  wave  to  drown  and  roll  me  under 
To  the  cold  tunny-fish's  home  where  the  drowned  galleons  are. 

And  in  the  dim  green  quiet  place  far  out  of  sight  and  hearing, 
Grant  I  may  hear  at  whiles  the  wash  and  thresh  of  the  sea-foam 
About  the  fine  keen  bows  of  the  stately  clippers  steering 
Towards  the  lone  northern  star  and  the  fair  ports  of  home. 


DAWN 

The  dawn  comes  cold:  the  haystack  smokes, 

The  green  twigs  crackle  in  the  fire, 
The  dew  is  dripping  from  the  oaks, 
And  sleepy  men  bear  milking-yokes 
Slowly  towards  the  cattle-byre. 

Down  in  the  town  a  clock  strikes  six, 

The  grey  east  heaven  burns  and  glows, 
The  dew  shines  on  the  thatch  of  ricks, 
A  slow  old  crone  comes  gathering  sticks, 
The  red  cock  in  the  ox-yard  crows. 
[91] 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

Beyond  the  stack  where  we  have  lain 
The  road  runs  twisted  like  a  snake 
(The  white  road  to  the  land  of  Spain), 
The  road  that  we  must  foot  again, 

Though  the  feet  halt  and  the  heart  ache. 


LAUGH  AND  BE  MERRY 

Laugh  and  be  merry,  remember,  better  the  world  with  a  song, 
Better  the  world  with  a  blow  in  the  teeth  of  a  wrong. 
Laugh,  for  the  time  is  brief,  a  thread  the  length  of  a  span. 
Laugh  and  be  proud  to  belong  to  the  old  proud  pageant  of  man. 

Laugh  and  be  merry:  remember,  in  olden  time. 

God  made  Heaven  and  Earth  for  joy  He  took  in  a  rhyme, 

Made  them,  and  filled  them  full  with  the  strong  red  wine  of 

His  mirth, 
The  splendid  joy  of  the  stars:  the  joy  of  the  earth. 

So  we  must  laugh  and  drink  from  the  deep  blue  cup  of  the  sky, 
Join  the  jubilant  song  of  the  great  stars  sweeping  by, 
Laugh,  and  battle,  and  work,  and  drink  of  the  wine  outpoured 
In  the  dear  green  earth,  the  sign  of  the  joy  of  the  Lord. 

Laugh  and  be  merry  together,  like  brothers  akin, 
Guesting  awhile  in  the  rooms  of  a  beautiful  inn, 
Glad  till  the  dancing  stops,  and  the  lilt  of  the  music  ends. 
Laugh  till  the  game  is  played;  and  be  you  merry,  my  friends. 


1 9*1 


JUNE  TWILIGHT 

The  twilight  comes;  the  sun 

Dips  down  and  sets, 
The  boys  have  done 

Play  at  the  nets. 

In  a  warm  golden  glow 

The  woods  are  steeped. 
The  shadows  grow; 

The  bat  has  cheeped. 

Sweet  smells  the  new-mown  hay; 

The  mowers  pass 
Home,  each  his  way, 

Through  the  grass. 

The  night-wind  stirs  the  fern, 

A  night-jar  spins; 
The  windows  burn 

In  the  inns. 

Dusky  it  grows.    The  moon! 

The  dews  descend. 
Love,  can  this  beauty  in  our  hearts 

End? 


[93l 


ROADWAYS 

One  road  leads  to  London, 
One  road  runs  to  Wales, 
My  road  leads  me  seawards 
To  the  white  dipping  sails. 

One  road  leads  to  the  river, 
As  it  goes  singing  slow; 

My  road  leads  to  shipping, 
Where  the  bronzed  sailors  go. 

Leads  me,  lures  me,  calls  me 
To  salt  green  tossing  sea; 

A  road  without  earth's  road-dust 
Is  the  right  road  for  me. 

A  wet  road  heaving,  shining, 
And  wild  with  seagull's  cries, 

A  mad  salt  sea-wind  blowing 
The  salt  spray  in  my  eyes. 

My  road  calls  me,  lures  me 
West,  east,  south,  and  north; 

Most  roads  lead  men  homewards, 
My  road  leads  me  forth 

To  add  more  miles  to  the  tally 
Of  grey  miles  left  behind, 

In  quest  of  that  one  beauty 
God  put  me  here  to  find. 
(94l 


MIDSUMMER  NIGHT 

The  perfect  disc  of  the  sacred  moon 

Through  still  blue  heaven  serenely  swims, 
And  the  lone  bird's  liquid  music  brims 

The  peace  of  the  night  with  a  perfect  tune. 

This  is  that  holiest  night  of  the  year 

When  (the  mowers  say)  may  be  heard  and  seen 
The  ghostly  court  of  the  English  queen, 

Who  rides  to  harry  and  hunt  the  deer. 

And  the  woodland  creatures  cower  awake, 
A  strange  unrest  is  on  harts  and  does, 
For  the  maiden  Dian  a-hunting  goes, 

And  the  trembling  deer  are  afoot  in  the  brake. 

They  start  at  a  shaken  leaf:  the  sound 
Of  a  dry  twig  snapped  by  a  squirrel's  foot 
Is  a  nameless  dread :  and  to  them  the  hoot 

Of  a  mousing  owl  is  the  cry  of  a  hound. 

Oh  soon  the  forest  will  ring  with  cries, 
The  dim  green  coverts  will  flash:  the  grass 
Will  glow  as  the  radiant  hunters  pass 

After  the  quarry  with  burning  eyes. 

The  hurrying  feet  will  range  unstayed 
Of  questing  goddess  and  hunted  fawn, 
Till  the  east  is  grey  with  the  sacred  dawn, 

And  the  red  cock  wakens  the  milking  maid. 

[9Sl 


THE  HARPER'S  SONG 

This  sweetness  trembling  from  the  strings 
The  music  of  my  troublous  lute 
Hath  timed  Herodias'  daughter's  foot; 
Setting  a-clink  her  ankle-rings 
Whenas  she  danced  to  feasted  kings. 

Where  gemmed  apparel  burned  and  caught 
The  sunset  'neath  the  golden  dome, 
To  the  dark  beauties  of  old  Rome 
My  sorrowful  lute  hath  haply  brought 
Sad  memories  sweet  with  tender  thought. 

When  night  had  fallen  and  lights  and  fires 
Were  darkened  in  the  homes  of  men, 
Some  sighing  echo  stirred: — and  then 
The  old  cunning  wakened  from  the  wires 
The  old  sorrows  and  the  old  desires. 

Dead  Kings  in  long  forgotten  lands, 
And  all  dead  beauteous  women;  some 
Whose  pride  imperial  hath  become 
Old  armour  rusting  in  the  sands 
And  shards  of  iron  in  dusty  hands, 

Have  heard  my  lyre's  soft  rise  and  fall 
Go  trembling  down  the  paven  ways, 
Till  every  heart  was  all  ablaze — 

Hasty  each  foot — to  obey  the  call 

To  triumph  or  to  funeral. 
[961 


THE  GENTLE  LADY 

Could  I  begin  again  the  slow 
Sweet  mournful  music  filled  with  tears, 
Surely  the  old,  dead,  dusty  ears 

Would  hear;  the  old  drowsy  eyes  would  glow, 

Old  memories  come;  old  hopes  and  fears, 

And  time  restore  the  long  ago. 


THE  GENTLE  LADY 

So  beautiful,  so  dainty-sweet, 
So  like  a  lyre's  delightful  touch — 
A  beauty  perfect,  ripe,  complete 
That  art's  own  hand  could  only  smutch 
And  nature's  self  not  better  much. 

So  beautiful,  so  purely  wrought, 
Like  a  fair  missal  penned  with  hymns, 
So  gentle,  so  surpassing  thought — 
A  beauteous  soul  in  lovely  limbs, 
A  lantern  that  an  angel  trims. 

So  simple-sweet,  without  a  sin, 

Like  gentle  music  gently  timed, 

Like  rhyme-words  coming  aptly  in, 

To  round  a  mooned  poem  rhymed 

To  tunes  the  laughing  bells  have  chimed. 


THE  DEAD  KNIGHT 

The  cleanly  rush  of  the  mountain  air, 

And  the  mumbling,  grumbling  humble-bees, 

Are  the  only  things  that  wander  there. 

The  pitiful  bones  are  laid  at  ease, 

The  grass  has  grown  in  his  tangled  hair, 

And  a  rambling  bramble  binds  his  knees. 

To  shrieve  his  soul  from  the  pangs  of  hell, 

The  only  requiem  bells  that  rang 

Were  the  harebell  and  the  heather  bell. 

Hushed  he  is  with  the  holy  spell 

In  the  gentle  hymn  the  wind  sang, 

And  he  lies  quiet,  and  sleeps  well. 

He  is  bleached  and  blanched  with  the  summer  sun; 

The  misty  rain  and  the  cold  dew 

Have  altered  him  from  the  kingly  one 

Whom  his  lady  loved,  and  his  men  knew, 

And  dwindled  him  to  a  skeleton. 

The  vetches  have  twined  about  his  bones, 

The  straggling  ivy  twists  and  creeps 

In  his  eye-sockets:  the  nettle  keeps 

Vigil  about  him  while  he  sleeps. 

Over  his  body  the  wind  moans 

With  a  dreary  tune  th  oughout  the  day, 

In  a  chorus  wistful,  eerie,  thin 

As  the  gulls'  cry,  as  the  cry  in  the  bay, 

The  mournful  word  the  seas  say 

When  tides  are  wandering  out  or  in. 


SORROW  OF  MYDATH 

Weary  the  cry  of  the  wind  is,  weary  the  sea, 
Weary  the  heart  and  the  mind  and  the  body  of  me, 
Would  I  were  out  of  it,  done  with  it,  would  I  could  be 
A  white  gull  crying  along  the  desolate  sands 

Outcast,  derelict  soul  in  a  body  accurst, 
Standing  drenched  with  the  spindrift,  standing  athirst, 
For  the  cool  green  waves  of  death  to  arise  and  burst 
In  a  tide  of  quiet  for  me  on  the  desolate  sands. 

Would  that  the  waves  and  the  long  white  hair  of  the  spray 
Would  gather  in  splendid  terror,  and  blot  me  away 
To  the  sunless  place  of  the  wrecks  where  the  waters  sway 
Gently,  dreamily,  quietly  over  desolate  sands. 

TWILIGHT 

Twilight  it  is,  and  the  far  woods  are  dim,  and  the  rooks  cry 

and  call. 

Down  in  the  valley  the  lamps,  and  the  mist,  and  a  star  over  all, 
There  by  the  rick,  where  they  thresh,  is  the  drone  at  an  end, 
Twilight  it  is,  and  I  travel  the  road  with  my  friend. 

I  think  of  the  friends  who  are  dead,  who  were  dear  long  ago 

in  the  past, 
Beautiful  friends  who  are  dead,  though  I  know  that  death 

cannot  last; 

Friends  with  the  beautiful  eyes  that  the  dust  has  defiled, 
Beautiful  souls  who  were  gentle  when  I  was  a  child. 

[99] 


INVOCATION 

O  wanderer  into  many  brains, 
O  spark  the  emperor's  purple  hides, 
You  sow  the  dusk  with  fiery  grains 
When  the  gold  horseman  rides. 

O  beauty  on  the  darkness  hurled, 

Be  it  through  me  you  shame  the  world. 


POSTED  AS  MISSING 

Under  all  her  topsails  she  trembled  like  a  stag, 
The  wind  made  a  ripple  in  her  bonny  red  flag; 
They  cheered  her  from  the  shore  and  they  cheered  her  from 

the  pier, 
And  under  all  her  topsails  she  trembled  like  a  deer. 

So  she  passed  swaying,  where  the  green  seas  run, 
Her  wind-steadied  topsails  were  stately  in  the  sun; 
There  was  glitter  on  the  water  from  her  red  port  light) 
So  she  passed  swaying,  till  she  was  out  of  sight. 

Long  and  long  ago  it  was,  a  weary  time  it  is-, 
The  bones  of  her  sailor-men  are  coral  plants  by  this; 
Coral  plants,  and  shark-weed,  and  a  mermaid's  comb, 
And  if  the  fishers  net  them  they  never  bring  them  home. 

It's  rough  on  sailors'  women.    They  have  to  mangle  hard, 
And  stitch  at  dungarees  till  their  finger-ends  are  scarred, 
Thinking  of  the  sailor-men  who  sang  among  the  crowd, 
Hoisting  of  her  topsails  when  she  sailed  so  proud. 

[too] 


A  CREED 

I  hold  that  when  a  person  dies 
His  soul  returns  again  to  earth; 

Arrayed  in  some  new  flesh-disguise 
Another  mother  gives  him  birth. 

With  sturdier  limbs  and  brighter  brain 

The  old  soul  takes  the  roads  again. 

Such  is  my  own  belief  and  trust; 

This  hand,  this  hand  that  holds  the  pen, 
Has  many  a  hundred  times  been  dust 
And  turned,  as  dust,  to  dust  again; 
These  eyes  of  mine  have  blinked  and  shone 
In  Thebes,  in  Troy,  in  Babylon. 

All  that  I  rightly  think  or  do, 

Or  make,  or  spoil,  or  bless,  or  blast, 

Is  curse  or  blessing  justly  due 
For  sloth  or  effort  in  the  past. 

My  life's  a  statement  of  the  sum 

Of  vice  indulged,  or  overcome. 

I  know  that  in  my  lives  to  be 

My  sorry  heart  will  ache  and  burn, 

And  worship,  unavailingly, 
The  woman  whom  I  used  to  spurn, 

And  shake  to  see  another  have 

The  love  I  spurned,  the  love  she  gave. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

And  I  shall  know,  in  angry  words, 
In  gibes,  and  mocks,  and  many  a  tear, 

A  carrion  flock  of  homing-birds, 

The  gibes  and  scorns  I  uttered  here. 
The  brave  word  that  I  failed  to  speak 

Will  brand  me  dastard  on  the  cheek. 

And  as  I  wander  on  the  roads 

I  shall  be  helped  and  healed  and  blessed; 
Dear  words  shall  cheer  and  be  as  goads 

To  urge  to  heights  before  unguessed. 
My  road  shall  be  the  road  I  made; 
All  that  I  gave  shall  be  repaid. 

So  shall  I  fight,  so  shall  I  tread, 
In  this  long  war  beneath  the  stars; 

So  shall  a  glory  wreathe  my  head, 
So  shall  I  faint  and  show  the  scars, 

Until  this  case,  this  clogging  mould, 

Be  smithied  all  to  kingly  gold. 


WHEN  BONY  DEATH 

When  bony  Death  has  chilled  her  gentle  blood, 
And  dimmed  the  brightness  of  her  wistful  eyes, 

And  changed  her  glorious  beauty  into  mud 
By  his  old  skill  in  hateful  wizardries; 

When  an  old  lichened  marble  strives  to  tell 
How  sweet  a  grace,  how  red  a  lip  was  hers; 

When  rheumy  grey-beards  say,  "I  knew  her  well," 
Showing  the  grave  to  curious  worshippers; 

[102] 


HER  HEART 

When  all  the  roses  that  she  sowed  in  me 

Have  dripped  their  crimson  petals  and  decayed, 

Leaving  no  greenery  on  any  tree 

That  her  dear  hands  in  my  heart's  garden  laid, 

Then  grant,  old  Time,  to  my  green  mouldering  skull, 
These  songs  may  keep  her  memory  beautiful. 


HER  HEART 

Her  heart  is  always  doing  lovely  things, 

Filling  my  wintry  mind  with  simple  flowers; 

Playing  sweet  tunes  on  my  untuned  strings, 
Delighting  all  my  undelightful  hours. 

She  plays  me  like  a  lute,  what  tune  she  will, 

No  string  in  me  but  trembles  at  her  touch, 
Shakes  into  sacred  music,  or  is  still, 

Trembles  or  stops,  or  swells,  her  skill  is  such. 
And  in  the  dusty  tavern  of  my  soul 

Where  filthy  lusts  drink  witches'  brew  for  wine, 
Her  gentle  hand  still  keeps  me  from  the  bowl, 

Still  keeps  me  man,  saves  me  from  being  swine. 

All  grace  in  me,  all  sweetness  in  my  verse, 
Is  hers,  is  my  dear  girl's,  and  only  hers. 


BEING  HER  FRIEND 

Being  her  friend,  I  do  not  care,  not  I, 

How  gods  or  men  may  wrong  me,  beat  me  down; 
Her  word's  sufficient  star  to  travel  by, 

I  count  her  quiet  praise  sufficient  crown. 

Being  her  friend,  I  do  not  covet  gold, 
Save  for  a  royal  gift  to  give  her  pleasure; 

To  sit  with  her,  and  have  her  hand  to  hold, 
Is  wealth,  I  think,  surpassing  minted  treasure. 

Being  her  friend,  I  only  covet  art, 
A  white  pure  flame  to  search  me  as  I  trace 

In  crooked  letters  from  a  throbbing  heart 
The  hymn  to  beauty  written  on  her  face. 


FRAGMENTS 

Troy  Town  is  covered  up  with  weeds, 
The  rabbits  and  the  pismires  brood 

On  broken  gold,  and  shards,  and  beads 
Where  Priam's  ancient  palace  stood. 

The  floors  of  many  a  gallant  house 
Are  matted  with  the  roots  of  grass; 

The  glow-worm  and  the  nimble  mouse 
Among  her  ruins  flit  and  pass. 
1 104] 


FRAGMENTS 

And  there,  in  orts  of  blackened  bone, 

The  widowed  Trojan  beauties  lie, 
And  Simois  babbles  over  stone 

And  waps  and  gurgles  to  the  sky. 

Once  there  were  merry  days  in  Troy, 

Her  chimneys  smoked  with  cooking  meals, 

The  passing  chariots  did  annoy 

The  sunning  housewives  at  their  wheels. 

And  many  a  lovely  Trojan  maid 

Set  Trojan  lads  to  lovely  things; 
The  game  of  life  was  nobly  played, 

They  played  the  game  like  Queens  and  Kings. 

So  that,  when  Troy  had  greatly  passed 

In  one  red  roaring  fiery  coal, 
The  courts  the  Grecians  overcast 

Became  a  city  in  the  soul. 

In  some  green  island  of  the  sea, 

Where  now  the  shadowy  coral  grows 

In  pride  and  pomp  and  empery 
The  courts  of  old  Atlantis  rose. 

In  many  a  glittering  house  of  glass 

The  Atlanteans  wandered  there; 
The  paleness  of  their  faces  was 

Like  ivory,  so  pale  they  were. 

And  hushed  they  were,  no  noise  of  words 

In  those  bright  cities  ever  rang; 
Only  their  thoughts,  like  golden  birds, 

About  their  chambers  thrilled  and  sang. 
[105] 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

They  knew  all  wisdom,  for  they  knew 
The  souls  of  those  Egyptian  Kings 

Who  learned,  in  ancient  Babilu, 
The  beauty  of  immortal  things. 

They  knew  all  beauty — when  they  thought 
The  air  chimed  like  a  stricken  lyre, 

The  elemental  birds  were  wrought, 
The  golden  birds  became  a  fire. 

And  straight  to  busy  camps  and  marts 
The  singing  flames  were  swiftly  gone; 

The  trembling  leaves  of  human  hearts 
Hid  boughs  for  them  to  perch  upon. 

And  men  in  desert  places,  men 

Abandoned,  broken,  sick  with  fears, 

Rose  singing,  swung  their  swords  agen, 
And  laughed  and  died  among  the  spears. 

The  green  and  greedy  seas  have  drowned 
That  city's  glittering  walls  and  towers, 

Her  sunken  minarets  are  crowned 
With  red  and  russet  water-flowers. 

In  towers  and  rooms  and  golden  courts 
The  shadowy  coral  lifts  her  sprays; 

The  scrawl  hath  gorged  her  broken  orts, 
The  shark  doth  haunt  her  hidden  ways. 
[106] 


BORN  FOR  NOUGHT  ELSE 

But,  at  the  falling  of  the  tide, 
The  golden  birds  still  sing  and  gleam, 

The  Atlanteans  have  not  died, 

Immortal  things  still  give  us  dream. 

The  dream  that  fires  man's  heart  to  make, 
To  build,  to  do,  to  sing  or  say 

A  beauty  Death  can  never  take, 
An  Adam  from  the  crumbled  clay. 


BORN  FOR  NOUGHT  ELSE 

Born  for  nought  else,  for  nothing  but  for  this, 
To  watch  the  soft  blood  throbbing  in  her  throat, 

To  think  how  comely  sweet  her  body  is, 
And  learn  the  poem  of  her  face  by  rote. 

Born  for  nought  else  but  to  attempt  a  rhyme 
That  shall  describe  her  womanhood  aright, 

And  make  her  holy  to  the  end  of  Time, 
And  be  my  soul's  acquittal  in  God's  sight. 

Born  for  nought  else  but  to  expressly  mark 
The  music  of  her  dear  delicious  ways; 

Born  but  to  perish  meanly  in  the  dark, 
Yet  born  to  be  the  man  to  sing  her  praise. 

Born  for  nought  else:  there  is  a  spirit  tells 
My  lot's  a  King's,  being  born  for  nothing  else. 
[107] 


TEWKESBURY  ROAD 

It  is  good  to  be  out  on  the  road,  and  going  one  knows  not  where, 
Going  through  meadow  and  village,  one  knows  not  whither 

nor  why; 
Through  the  grey  light  drift  of  the  dust,  in  the  keen  cool  rush 

of  the  air, 

Under  the  flying  white  clouds,  and  the  broad  blue  lift  of 
the  sky. 

And  to  halt  at  the  chattering  brook,  in  the  tall  green  fern  at 

the  brink 
Where  the  harebell  grows,  and  the  gorse,  and  the  foxgloves 

purple  and  white; 
Where  the  shy-eyed  delicate  deer  troop  down  to  the  brook  to 

drink 

When  the  stars  are  mellow  and  large  at  the  coming  on  of  the 
night. 

0,  to  feel  the  beat  of  the  rain,  and  the  homely  smell  of  the  earth, 

Is  a  tune  for  the  blood  to  jig  to,  a  joy  past  power  of  words; 

And  the  blessed  green  comely  meadows  are  all  a-ripple  with 

mirth 

At  the  noise  of  the  lambs  at  play  and  the  dear  wild  cry  of  the 
birds. 


[108] 


THE  DEATH  ROOMS 

My  soul  has  many  an  old  decaying  room 
Hung  with  the  ragged  arras  of  the  past, 

Where  startled  faces  flicker  in  the  gloom, 
And  horrid  whispers  set  the  cheek  aghast. 

Those  dropping  rooms  are  haunted  by  a  death, 
A  something  like  a  worm  gnawing  a  brain, 

That  bids  me  heed  what  bitter  lesson  saith 
The  blind  wind  beating  on  the  window-pane. 

None  dwells  in  those  old  rooms :  none  ever  can — 
I  pass  them  through  at  night  with  hidden  head; 

Lock'd  rotting  rooms  her  eyes  must  never  scan, 
Floors  that  her  blessed  feet  must  never  tread. 

Haunted  old  rooms :  rooms  she  must  never  know, 
Where  death-ticks  knock  and  mouldering  panels  glow. 


IGNORANCE 

Since  I  have  learned  Love's  shining  alphabet, 
And  spelled  in  ink  what's  writ  in  me  in  flame, 

And  borne  her  sacred  image  richly  set 

Here  in  my  heart  to  keep  me  quit  of  shame; 
[109] 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

Since  I  have  learned  how  wise  and  passing  wise 
Is  the  dear  friend  whose  beauty  I  extol, 

And  know  how  sweet  a  soul  looks  through  the  eyes, 
That  are  so  pure  a  window  to  her  soul; 

Since  I  have  learned  how  rare  a  woman  shows 
As  much  in  all  she  does  as  in  her  looks, 

And  seen  the  beauty  of  her  shame  the  rose, 
And  dim  the  beauty  writ  about  in  books; 

AH  I  have  learned,  and  can  learn,  shows  me  this — 
How  scant,  how  slight,  my  knowledge  of  her  is. 


THE  WATCH  IN  THE  WOOD 

When  Death  has  laid  her  in  his  quietude, 
And  dimmed  the  glow  of  her  benignant  star, 

Her  tired  limbs  shall  rest  within  a  wood, 

In  a  green  glade  where  oaks  and  beeches  are, 

Where  the  shy  fawns,  the  pretty  fawns,  the  deer, 
With  mild  brown  eyes  shall  view  her  spirit's  husk; 

The  sleeping  woman  of  her  will  appear, 

The  maiden  Dian  shining  through  the  dusk. 

And,  when  the  stars  are  white  as  twilight  fails, 

And  the  green  leaves  are  hushed,  and  the  winds  swoon, 

The  calm  pure  thrilling  throats  of  nightingales 
Shall  hymn  her  sleeping  beauty  to  the  moon, 
[no] 


C.  L  M. 

All  the  woods  hushed — save  for  a  dripping  rose, 
All  the  woods  dim — save  where  a  glow-worm  glows. 

Brimming  the  quiet  woods  with  holiness, 

The  lone  brown  birds  will  hymn  her  till  the  dawn, 

The  delicate,  shy,  dappled  deer  will  press 
Soft  pitying  muzzles  on  her  swathed  lawn. 

The  little  pretty  rabbits  running  by. 

Will  pause  among  the  dewy  grass  to  peep, 
Their  thudding  hearts  affrighted  to  espy 

The  maiden  Dian  lying  there  asleep. 

Brown,  lustrous,  placid  eyes  of  sylvan  things 

Will  wonder  at  the  quiet  in  her  face, 
While  from  the  thorny  branch  the  singer  brings 

Beauty  and  peace  to  that  immortal  place. 

Until  the  grey  dawn  sets  the  woods  astir 

The  pure  birds'  thrilling  psalm  will  mourn  for  her. 


C.  L.  M. 

In  the  dark  womb  where  I  began 
My  mother's  life  made  me  a  man. 
Through  all  the  months  of  human  birth 
Her  beauty  fed  my  common  earth. 
I  cannot  see,  nor  breathe,  nor  stir, 
But  through  the  death  of  some  of  her. 
[ml 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

Down  in  the  darkness  of  the  grave 
She  cannot  see  the  life  she  gave. 
For  all  her  love,  she  cannot  tell 
Whether  I  use  it  ill  or  well, 
Nor  knock  at  dusty  doors  to  find 
Her  beauty  dusty  in  the  mind. 

If  the  grave's  gates  could  be  undone, 
She  would  not  know  her  little  son, 
I  am  so  grown.    If  we  should  meet 
She  would  pass  by  me  in  the  street, 
Unless  my  soul's  face  let  her  see 
My  sense  of  what  she  did  for  me. 

What  have  I  done  to  keep  in  mind 
My  debt  to  her  and  womankind  ? 
What  woman's  happier  life  repays 
Her  for  those  months  of  wretched  days? 
For  all  my  mouthless  body  leeched 
Ere  Birth's  releasing  hell  was  reached? 

What  have  I  done,  or  tried,  or  said 
In  thanks  to  that  dear  woman  dead? 
Men  triumph  over  women  still, 
Men  trample  women's  rights  at  will, 
And  man's  lust  roves  the  world  untamed. 

*  *  *  * 

0  grave,  keep  shut  lest  I  be  shamed. 


WASTE 

No  rose  but  fades:  no  glory  but  must  pass: 
No  hue  but  dims:  no  precious  silk  but  frets. 

Her  beauty  must  go  underneath  the  grass, 
Under  the  long  roots  of  the  violets. 

O,  many  glowing  beauties  Time  has  hid 
In  that  dark,  blotting  box  the  villain  sends. 

He  covers  over  with  a  coffin-lid 
Mothers  and  sons,  and  foes  and  lovely  friends. 

Maids  that  were  redly-lipped  and  comely-skinned, 
Friends  that  deserved  a  sweeter  bed  than  clay, 

All  are  as  blossoms  blowing  down  the  wind, 
Things  the  old  envious  villain  sweeps  away. 

And  though  the  mutterer  laughs  and  church  bells  toll, 
Death  brings  another  April  to  the  soul. 


THIRD  MATE 

All  the  sheets  are  clacking,  all  the  blocks  are  whining, 
The  sails  are  frozen  stiff  and  the  wetted  decks  are  shining; 
The  reef's  in  the  topsails,  and  it's  coming  on  to  blow, 
And  I  think  of  the  dear  girl  I  left  long  ago. 

[113! 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

Grey  were  her  eyes,  and  her  hair  was  long  and  bonny, 
Golden  was  her  hair,  like  the  wild  bees'  honey. 
And  I  was  but  a  dog,  and  a  mad  one  to  despise, 
The  gold  of  her  hair  and  the  grey  of  her  eyes. 

There's  the  sea  before  me,  and  my  home's  behind  me, 
And  beyond  there  the  strange  lands  where  nobody  will  mind  me, 
No  one  but  the  girls  with  the  paint  upon  their  cheeks, 
Who  sell  away  their  beauty  to  whomsoever  seeks. 

There'll  be  drink  and  women  there,  and  songs  and  laughter, 
Peace  from  what  is  past  and  from  all  that  follows  after; 
And  a  fellow  will  forget  how  a  woman  lies  awake, 
Lonely  in  the  night  watch  crying  for  his  sake. 

Black  it  blows  and  bad  and  it  howls  like  slaughter, 
And  the  ship  she  shudders  as  she  takes  the  water. 
Hissing  flies  the  spindrift  like  a  wind-blown  smoke, 
And  I  think  of  a  woman  and  a  heart  I  broke. 


THE  WILD  DUCK 

Twilight.    Red  in  the  west. 
Dimness.    A  glow  on  the  wood. 
The  teams  plod  home  to  rest. 
The  wild  duck  come  to  glean. 
O  souls  not  understood, 
What  a  wild  cry  in  the  pool; 
What  things  have  the  farm  ducks  seen 
That  they  cry  so — huddle  and  cry? 
[114] 


CHRISTMAS,  1903 

Only  the  soul  that  goes. 
Eager.    Eager.    Flying. 
Over  the  globe  of  the  moon, 
Over  the  wood  that  glows. 
Wings  linked.    Necks  a-strain, 
A  rush  and  a  wild  crying. 


A  cry  of  the  long  pain 

In  the  reeds  of  a  steel  lagoon. 

In  a  land  that  no  man  knows. 


CHRISTMAS,  1903 

O,  the  sea  breeze  will  be  steady,  and  the  tall  ship's  going  trim, 
And  the  dark  blue  skies  are  paling,  and  the  white  stars  burning 

dim; 

The  long  night  watch  is  over,  and  the  long  sea-roving  done, 
And  yonder  light  is  the  Start  Point  light,  and  yonder  comes  the 

sun. 

O,  we  have  been  with  the  Spaniards,  and  far  and  long  on  the  sea; 
But  there  are  the  twisted  chimneys,  and  the  gnarled  old  inns  on 

the  quay. 
The  wind  blows  keen  as  the  day  breaks,  the  roofs  are  white  with 

the  rime, 
And  the  church-bells  ring  as  the  sun  comes  up  to  call  men  in  to 

Prime. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

The  church-bells  rock  and  jangle,  and  there  is  peace  on  the 

earth. 

Peace  and  good  will  and  plenty  and  Christmas  games  and  mirth. 
O,  the  gold  glints  bright  on  the  wind-vane  as  it  shifts  above  the 

squire's  house, 
And  the  water  of  the  bar  of  Salcombe  is  muttering  about  the 

bows. 

O,  the  salt  sea  tide  of  Salcombe,  it  wrinkles  into  wisps  of  foam, 
And  the  church-bells  ring  in  Salcombe  to  ring  poor  sailors  home. 
The  belfry  rocks  as  the  bells  ring,  the  chimes  are  merry  as  a  song, 
They  ring  home  wandering  sailors  who  have  been  homeless  long. 


THE  WORD 

My  friend,  my  bonny  friend,  when  we  are  old, 
And  hand  in  hand  go  tottering  down  the  hill, 

May  we  be  rich  in  love's  refined  gold, 

May  love's  gold  coin  be  current  with  us  still. 

May  love  be  sweeter  for  the  vanished  days, 
And  your  most  perfect  beauty  still  as  dear 

As  when  your  troubled  singer  stood  at  gaze 
In  the  dear  March  of  a  most  sacred  year. 

May  what  we  are  be  all  we  might  have  been, 
And  that  potential,  perfect,  O  my  friend, 

And  may  there  still  be  many  sheafs  to  glean 
In  our  love's  acre,  comrade,  till  the  end. 

And  may  we  find,  when  ended  is  the  page, 
Death  but  a  tavern  on  our  pilgrimage. 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 


TO  MY  WIFE 


Thy  place  is  biggyd  above  the  sterrys  deer, 
Noon  erthely  paleys  wrouhte  in  so  statly  wyse, 
Com  on  my  freend,  my  brothir  moost  enteer, 
For  the  I  offryd  my  blood  in  sacrifise. 

JOHN  LYDGATE. 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

From  '41  to  '51 

I  was  my  folk's  contrary  son; 

I  bit  my  father's  hand  right  through 

And  broke  my  mother's  heart  in  two. 

I  sometimes  go  without  my  dinner 

Now  that  I  know  the  times  I've  gi'n  her. 

From  '51  to  '61 

I  cut  my  teeth  and  took  to  fun. 

I  learned  what  not  to  be  afraid  of 

And  what  stuff  women's  lips  are  made  of; 

I  learned  with  what  a  rosy  feeling 

Good  ale  makes  floors  seem  like  the  ceiling, 

And  how  the  moon  gives  shiny  light 

To  lads  as  roll  home  singing  by't. 

My  blood  did  leap,  my  flesh  did  revel, 

Saul  Kane  was  tokened  to  the  devil. 

From  '61  to  '67 

I  lived  in  disbelief  of  Heaven. 

I  drunk,  I  fought,  I  poached,  I  whored, 

I  did  despite  unto  the  Lord. 

I  cursed,  'would  make  a  man  look  pale, 

And  nineteen  times  I  went  to  gaol. 

Now,  friends,  observe  and  look  upon  me, 
Mark  how  the  Lord  took  pity  on  me. 
By  Dead  Man's  Thorn,  while  setting  wires, 
Who  should  come  up  but  Billy  Myers, 
[121] 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

A  friend  of  mine,  who  used  to  be 

As  black  a  sprig  of  hell  as  me, 

With  whom  I'd  planned,  to  save  encroachin', 

Which  fields  and  coverts  each  should  poach  in. 

Now  when  he  saw  me  set  my  snare, 

He  tells  me  "Get  to  hell  from  there. 

This  field  is  mine,"  he  says,  "by  right; 

If  you  poach  here,  there'll  be  a  fight. 

Out  now,"  he  says,  "and  leave  your  wire; 

It's  mine." 

"It  ain't." 


"You  closhy  put." 

"You  bloody  liar." 

"This  is  my  field." 

"  This  is  my  wire." 

"I'm  ruler  here." 

"You  ain't." 

"I  am." 

"I'll  fight  you  for  it." 

"Right,  by  damn. 

Not  now,  though,  I've  a-sprained  my  thumb, 

We'll  fight  after  the  harvest  hum. 

And  Silas  Jones,  that  bookie  wide, 

Will  make  a  purse  five  pounds  a  side." 

Those  were  the  words,  that  was  the  place 

By  which  God  brought  me  into  grace. 

On  Wood  Top  Field  the  peewits  go 
Mewing  and  wheeling  ever  so; 
And  like  the  shaking  of  a  timbrel 
Cackles  the  laughter  of  the  whimbrel. 
[122] 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

In  the  old  quarry-pit  they  say 
Head-keeper  Pike  was  made  away. 
He  walks,  head-keeper  Pike,  for  harm, 
He  taps  the  windows  of  the  farm; 
The  blood  drips  from  his  broken  chin, 
He  taps  and  begs  to  be  let  in. 
On  Wood  Top,  nights,  I've  shaked  to  hark 
The  peewits  wambling  in  the  dark 
Lest  in  the  dark  the  old  man  might 
Creep  up  to  me  to  beg  a  light. 

But  Wood  Top  grass  is  short  and  sweet 
And  springy  to  a  boxer's  feet; 
At  harvest  hum  the  moon  so  bright 
Did  shine  on  Wood  Top  for  the  fight. 

When  Bill  was  stripped  down  to  his  bends 
I  thought  how  long  we  two'd  been  friends, 
And  in  my  mind   about  that  wire, 
I  thought  "He's  right,  I  am  a  liar. 
As  sure  as  skilly's  made  in  prison 
The  right  to  poach  that  copse  is  his'n. 
I'll  have  no  luck  to-night,"  thinks  I. 
"I'm  fighting  to  defend  a  lie. 
And  this  moonshiny  evening's  fun 
Is  worse  than  aught  I've  ever  done." 
And  thinking  that  way  my  heart  bled  so 
I  almost  stept  to  Bill  and  said  so. 
And  now  Bill's  dead  I  would  be  glad 
If  I  could  only  think  I  had. 
But  no.    I  put  the  thought  away 
For  fear  of  what  my  friends  would  say. 
[123! 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

They'd  backed  me,  see?    0  Lord,  the  sin 
Done  for  the  things  there's  money  in. 

The  stakes  were  drove,  the  ropes  were  hitched, 
Into  the  ring  my  hat  I  pitched. 
My  corner  faced  the  Squire's  park 
Just  where  the  fir  trees  make  it  dark; 
The  place  where  I  begun  poor  Nell 
Upon  the  woman's  road  to  hell. 
I  thought  oft,  sitting  in  my  corner 
After  the  time-keep  struck  his  warner 
(Two  brandy  flasks,  for  fear  of  noise, 
Clinked  out  the  time  to  us  two  boys). 
And  while  my  seconds  chafed  and  gloved  me 
I  thought  of  Nell's  eyes  when  she  loved  me, 
And  wondered  how  my  tot  would  end, 
First  Nell  cast  off  and  now  my  friend ; 
And  in  the  moonlight  dim  and  wan 
I  knew  quite  well  my  luck  was  gone; 
And  looking  round  I  felt  a  spite 
At  all  who'd  come  to  see  me  fight; 
The  five  and  forty  human  faces 
Inflamed  by  drink  and  going  to  races, 
Faces  of  men  who'd  never  been 
Merry  or  true  or  live  or  clean; 
Who'd  never  felt  the  boxer's  trim 
Of  brain  divinely  knit  to  limb, 
Nor  felt  the  whole  live  body  go 
One  tingling  health  from  top  to  toe; 
Nor  took  a  punch  nor  given  a  swing, 
But  just  soaked  deady  round  the  ring 
Until  their  brains  and  bloods  were  foul 
[U4l 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

Enough  to  make  their  throttles  howl, 
While  we  whom  Jesus  died  to  teach 
Fought  round  on  round,  three  minutes  each. 

And  thinking  that,  you'll  understand 
I  thought,  "I'll  go  and  take  Bill's  hand. 
I'll  up  and  say  the  fault  was  mine, 
He  shan't  make  play  for  these  here  swine." 
And  then  I  thought  that  that  was  silly, 
They'd  think  I  was  afraid  of  Billy; 
They'd  think  (I  thought  it,  God  forgive  me) 
I  funked  the  hiding  Bill  could  give  me. 
And  that  thought  made  me  mad  and  hot. 
"Think  that,  will  they?    Well,  they  shall  not. 
They  shan't  think  that.    I  will  not.    I'm 
Damned  if  I  will.    I  will  not." 
Time! 

From  the  beginning  of  the  bout 
My  luck  was  gone,  my  hand  was  out. 
Right  from  the  start  Bill  called  the  play, 
But  I  was  quick  and  kept  away 
Till  the  fourth  round,  when  work  got  mixed, 
And  then  I  knew  Bill  had  me  fixed. 
My  hand  was  out,  why,  Heaven  knows; 
Bill  punched  me  when  and  where  he  chose. 
Through  two  more  rounds  we  quartered  wide, 
And  all  the  time  my  hands  seemed  tied; 
Bill  punched  me  when  and  where  he  pleased. 
The  cheering  from  my  backers  eased, 
But  every  punch  I  heard  a  yell 
Of  "That's  the  style,  Bill,  give  him  hell." 
[125! 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

No  one  for  me,  but  Jimmy's  light 

"Straight  left!    Straight  left!"  and  "Watch  his  right." 

I  don't  know  how  a  boxer  goes 

When  all  his  body  hums  from  blows; 

I  know  I  seemed  to  rock  and  spin, 

I  don't  know  how  I  saved  my  chin; 

I  know  I  thought  my  only  friend 

Was  that  clinked  flask  at  each  round's  end 

When  my  two  seconds,  Ed  and  Jimmy, 

Had  sixty  seconds  help  to  gimme. 

But  in  the  ninth,  with  pain  and  knocks 

I  stopped:  I  couldn't  fight  nor  box. 

Bill  missed  his  swing,  the  light  was  tricky, 

But  I  went  down,  and  stayed  down,  dicky. 

"Get  up,"  cried  Jim.    I  said,  "I  will." 

Then  all  the  gang  yelled,  "Out  him,  Bill. 

Out  him."    Bill  rushed   ...   and  Clink,  Clink,  Clink. 

Time!  and  Jim's  knee,  and  rum  to  drink. 

And  round  the  ring  there  ran  a  titter: 

"Saved  by  the  call,  the  bloody  quitter." 

They  drove  (a  dodge  that  never  fails) 
A  pin  beneath  my  finger  nails. 
They  poured  what  seemed  a  running  beck 
Of  cold  spring  water  down  my  neck; 
Jim  with  a  lancet  quick  as  flies 
Lowered  the  swellings  round  my  eyes. 
They  sluiced  my  legs  and  fanned  my  face 
Through  all  that  blessed  minute's  grace; 
They  gave  my  calves  a  thorough  kneading, 
They  salved  my  cuts  and  stopped  the  bleeding. 

[126] 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

A  gulp  of  liquor  dulled  the  pain, 
And  then  the  two  flasks  clinked  again. 

Time! 

There  was  Bill  as  grim  as  death, 
He  rushed,  I  clinched,  to  get  more  breath, 
And  breath  I  got,  though  Billy  bats 
Some  stinging  short-arms  in  my  slats. 
And  when  we  broke,  as  I  foresaw, 
He  swung  his  right  in  for  the  jaw. 
I  stopped  it  on  my  shoulder  bone, 
And  at  the  shock  I  heard  Bill  groan — 
A  little  groan  or  moan  or  grunt 
As  though  I'd  hit  his  wind  a  bunt. 
At  that,  I  clinched,  and  while  we  clinched, 
His  old  time  right  arm  dig  was  flinched, 
And  when  we  broke  he  hit  me  light 
As  though  he  didn't  trust  his  right, 
He  flapped  me  somehow  with  his  wrist 
As  though  he  couldn't  use  his  fist, 
And  when  he  hit  he  winced  with  pain. 
I  thought,  "Your  sprained  thumb's  crocked  again." 
So  I  got  strength  and  Bill  gave  ground, 
And  that  round  was  an  easy  round. 

During  the  wait  my  Jimmy  said, 
"What's  making  Billy  fight  so  dead? 
He's  all  to  pieces.    Is  he  blown?" 
"His  thumb's  out." 
"No?    Then  it's  your  own. 
It's  all  your  own,  but  don't  be  rash — 
He's  got  the  goods  if  you've  got  cash, 
[127] 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

And  what  one  hand  can  do  he'll  do. 
Be  careful  this  next  round  or  two." 

Time.    There  was  Bill,  and  I  felt  sick 

That  luck  should  play  so  mean  a  trick 

And  give  me  leave  to  knock  him  out 

After  he'd  plainly  won  the  bout. 

But  by  the  way  the  man  came  at  me 

He  made  it  plain  he  meant  to  bat  me; 

If  you'd  a  seen  the  way  he  come 

You  wouldn't  think  he'd  crocked  a  thumb. 

With  all  his  skill  and  all  his  might 

He  clipped  me  dizzy  left  and  right; 

The  Lord  knows  what  the  effort  cost, 

But  he  was  mad  to  think  he'd  lost, 

And  knowing  nothing  else  could  save  him 

He  didn't  care  what  pain  it  gave  him. 

He  called  the  music  and  the  dance 

For  five  rounds  more  and  gave  no  chance. 

Try  to  imagine  if  you  can 
The  kind  of  manhood  in  the  man, 
And  if  you'd  like  to  feel  his  pain 
You  sprain  your  thumb  and  hit  the  sprain. 
And  hit  it  hard,  with  all  your  power 
On  something  hard  for  half-an-hour, 
While  someone  thumps  you  black  and  blue, 
And  then  you'll  know  what  Billy  knew. 
Bill  took  that  pain  without  a  sound 
Till  halfway  through  the  eighteenth  round, 
And  then  I  sent  him  down  and  out, 
And  Silas  said,  "  Kane  wins  the  bout." 
[128] 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

When  Bill  came  to,  you  understand, 

I  ripped  the  mitten  from  my  hand 

And  went  across  to  ask  Bill  shake. 

My  limbs  were  all  one  pain  and  ache, 

I  was  so  weary  and  so  sore 

I  don't  think  I'd  a  stood  much  more. 

Bill  in  his  corner  bathed  his  thumb, 

Buttoned  his  shirt  and  glowered  glum. 

"I'll  never  shake  your  hand,"  he  said. 

"I'd  rather  see  my  children  dead. 

I've  been  about  and  had  some  fun  with  you, 

But  you're  a  liar  and  I've  done  with  you. 

You've  knocked  me  out,  you  didn't  beat  me; 

Look  out  the  next  time  that  you  meet  me, 

There'll  be  no  friend  to  watch  the  clock  for  you 

And  no  convenient  thumb  to  crock  for  you, 

And  I'll  take  care,  with  much  delight, 

You'll  get  what  you'd  a  got  to-night; 

That  puts  my  meaning  clear,  I  guess, 

Now  get  to  hell;  I  want  to  dress." 

I  dressed.    My  backers  one  and  all 

Said,  "Well  done  you,"  or  "Good  old  Saul." 

"Saul  is  a  wonder  and  a  fly  'un, 

What'll  you  have,  Saul,  at  the  Lion?" 

With  merry  oaths  they  helped  me  down 

The  stony  wood  path  to  the  town. 

The  moonlight  shone  on  Cabbage  Walk, 
It  made  the  limestone  look  like  chalk. 
It  was  too  late  for  any  people, 
Twelve  struck  as  we  went  by  the  steeple. 
[129] 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

A  dog  barked,  and  an  owl  was  calling, 

The  squire's  brook  was  still  a-falling, 

The  carved  heads  on  the  church  looked  down 

On  "  Russell,  Blacksmith  of  this  Town," 

And  all  the  graves  of  all  the  ghosts 

Who  rise  on  Christmas  Eve  in  hosts 

To  dance  and  carol  in  festivity 

For  joy  of  Jesus  Christ's  Nativity 

(Bell-ringer  Dawe  and  his  two  sons 

Beheld  'em  from  the  bell-tower  once), 

Two  and  two  about  about 

Singing  the  end  of  Advent  out, 

Dwindling  down  to  windlestraws 

When  the  glittering  peacock  craws, 

As  craw  the  glittering  peacock  should 

When  Christ's  own  star  comes  over  the  wood. 

Lamb  of  the  sky  come  out  of  fold 

Wandering  windy  heavens  cold. 

So  they  shone  and  sang  till  twelve 

When  all  the  bells  ring  out  of  theirselve. 

Rang  a  peal  for  Christmas  morn, 

Glory,  men,  for  Christ  is  born. 

All  the  old  monks'  singing  places 
Glimmered  quick  with  flitting  faces, 
Singing  anthems,  singing  hymns 
Under  carven  cherubims. 
Ringer  Dawe  aloft  could  mark 
Faces  at  the  window  dark 
Crowding,  crowding,  row  on  row, 
Till  all  the  Church  began  to  glow. 
The  chapel  glowed,  the  nave,  the  choir, 
[130] 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

All  the  faces  became  fire 
Below  the  eastern  window  high 
To  see  Christ's  star  come  up  the  sky. 
Then  they  lifted  hands  and  turned, 
And  all  their  lifted  fingers  burned, 
Burned  like  the  golden  altar  tallows, 
Burned  like  a  troop  of  God's  own  Hallows, 
Bringing  to  mind  the  burning  time 
When  all  the  bells  will  rock  and  chime 
And  burning  saints  on  burning  horses 
Will  sweep  the  planets  from  their  courses 
And  loose  the  stars  to  burn  up  night. 
Lord,  give  us  eyes  to  bear  the  light. 

We  all  went  quiet  down  the  Scallenge 

Lest  Police  Inspector  Drew  should  challenge. 

But  'Spector  Drew  was  sleeping  sweet, 

His  head  upon  a  charges  sheet, 

Under  the  gas  jet  flaring  full, 

Snorting  and  snoring  like  a  bull, 

His  bull  cheeks  puffed,  his  bull  lips  blowing, 

His  ugly  yellow  front  teeth  showing. 

Just  as  we  peeped  we  saw  him  fumble 

And  scratch  his  head,  and  shift,  and  mumble. 

Down  in  the  lane  so  thin  and  dark 
The  tan-yards  stank  of  bitter  bark, 
The  curate's  pigeons  gave  a  flutter, 
A  cat  went  courting  down  the  gutter, 
And  none  else  stirred  a  foot  or  feather. 
The  houses  put  their  heads  together, 
Talking,  perhaps,  so  dark  and  sly, 
[131] 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

Of  all  the  folk  they'd  seen  go  by, 

Children,  and  men  and  women,  merry  all, 

Who'd  some  day  pass  that  way  to  burial. 

It  was  all  dark,  but  at  the  turning 

The  Lion  had  a  window  burning. 

So  in  we  went  and  up  the  stairs, 

Treading  as  still  as  cats  and  hares. 

The  way  the  stairs  creaked  made  you  wonder 

If  dead  men's  bones  were  hidden  under. 

At  head  of  stairs  upon  the  landing 

A  woman  with  a  lamp  was  standing; 

She  greet  each  gent  at  head  of  stairs 

With  "Step  in,  gents,  and  take  your  chairs. 

The  punch'll  come  when  kettle  bubble, 

But  don't  make  noise  or  there'll  be  trouble." 

'Twas  Doxy  Jane,  a  bouncing  girl 

With  eyes  all  sparks  and  hair  all  curl, 

And  cheeks  all  red  and  lips  all  coal, 

And  thirst  for  men  instead  of  soul. 

She's  trod  her  pathway  to  the  fire. 

Old  Rivers  had  his  nephew  by  her. 

I  step  aside  from  Tom  and  Jimmy 
To  find  if  she'd  a  kiss  to  gimme. 
I  blew  out  lamp  'fore  she  could  speak. 
She  said,  "If  you  ain't  got  a  cheek," 
And  then  beside  me  in  the  dim, 
"Did  he  beat  you  or  you  beat  him?" 
"Why,  I  beat  him"  (though  that  was  wrong). 
She  said,  "You  must  be  turble  strong. 
I'd  be  afraid  you'd  beat  me,  too." 
"You'd  not,"  I  said,  "I  wouldn't  do." 
[132] 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

"Never?" 

"No,  never." 

"Never?" 

"No." 

"O  Saul.    Here's  missus.    Let  me  go." 

It  wasn't  missus,  so  I  didn't, 

Whether  I  mid  do  or  I  midn't, 

Until  she'd  promised  we  should  meet 

Next  evening,  six,  at  top  of  street, 

When  we  could  have  a  quiet  talk 

On  that  low  wall  up  Worcester  Walk. 

And  while  we  whispered  there  together 

I  give  her  silver  for  a  feather 

And  felt  a  drunkenness  like  wine 

And  shut  out  Christ  in  husks  and  swine. 

I  felt  the  dart  strike  through  my  liver. 

God  punish  me  for't  and  forgive  her. 

Each  one  could  be  a  Jesus  mild, 

Each  one  has  been  a  little  child, 

A  little  child  with  laughing  look, 

A  lovely  white  unwritten  book; 

A  book  that  God  will  take,  my  friend, 

As  each  goes  out  at  journey's  end. 

The  Lord  Who  gave  us  Earth  and  Heaven 

Takes  that  as  thanks  for  all  He's  given. 

The  book  he  lent  is  given  back 

All  blotted  red  and  smutted  black. 

"Open  the  door,"  said  Jim,  "and  call." 
Jane  gasped  "They'll  see  me.    Loose  me,  Saul." 
[133] 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

She  pushed  me  by,  and  ducked  downstair 
With  half  the  pins  out  of  her  hair. 
I  went  inside  the  lit  room  rollen 
Her  scented  handkerchief  I'd  stolen. 
"What  would  you  fancy,  Saul?"  they  said. 
"A  gin  punch  hot  and  then  to  bed." 
"Jane,  fetch  the  punch  bowl  to  the  gemmen; 
And  mind  you  don't  put  too  much  lemon. 
Our  good  friend  Saul  has  had  a  fight  of  it, 
Now  smoke  up,  boys,  and  make  a  night  of  it." 

The  room  was  full  of  men  and  stink 
Of  bad  cigars  and  heavy  drink. 
Riley  was  nodding  to  the  floor 
And  gurgling  as  he  wanted  more. 
His  mouth  was  wide,  his  face  was  pale, 
His  swollen  face  was  sweating  ale; 
And  one  of  those  assembled  Greeks 
Had  corked  black  crosses  on  his  cheeks. 
Thomas  was  having  words  with  Goss, 
He  "wouldn't  pay,  the  fight  was  cross." 
And  Goss  told  Tom  that  "cross  or  no, 
The  bets  go  as  the  verdicts  go, 
By  all  I've  ever  heard  or  read  of. 
So  pay,  or  else  I'll  knock  your  head  off." 
Jim  Gurvil  said  his  smutty  say 
About  a  girl  down  Bye  Street  way, 
And  how  the  girl  from  Froggatt's  circus 
Died  giving  birth  in  Newent  work'us. 
And  Dick  told  how  the  Dymock  wench 
Bore  twins,  poor  things,  on  Dog  Hill  bench; 
And  how  he'd  owned  to  one  in  Court 
[134] 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

And  how  Judge  made  him  sorry  for't. 

Jack  set  a  Jew's  harp  twanging  drily; 

"Gimme  another  cup,"  said  Riley. 

A  dozen  more  were  in  their  glories 

With  laughs  and  smokes  and  smutty  stones; 

And  Jimmy  joked  and  took  his  sup 

And  sang  his  song  of  "Up,  come  up." 

Jane  brought  the  bowl  of  stewing  gin 

And  poured  the  egg  and  lemon  in, 

And  whisked  it  up  and  served  it  out 

While  bawdy  questions  went  about. 

Jack  chucked  her  chin,  and  Jim  accost  her 

With  bits  out  of  the  "Maid  of  Gloster." 

And  fifteen  arms  went  round  her  waist. 

(And  then  men  ask,  Are  Barmaids  chaste?) 

O  young  men,  pray  to  be  kept  whole 

From  bringing  down  a  weaker  soul. 

Your  minute's  joy  so  meet  in  doin* 

May  be  the  woman's  door  to  ruin; 

The  door  to  wandering  up  and  down, 

A  painted  whore  at  half  a  crown. 

The  bright  mind  fouled,  the  beauty  gay 

All  eaten  out  and  fallen  away, 

By  drunken  days  and  weary  tramps 

From  pub  to  pub  by  city  lamps 

Till  men  despise  the  game  they  started 

Till  health  and  beauty  are  departed, 

And  in  a  slum  the  reeking  hag 

Mumbles  a  crust  with  toothy  jag, 

Or  gets  the  river's  help  to  end 

The  life  too  wrecked  for  man  to  mend. 

fall 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

We  spat  and  smoked  and  took  our  swipe 

Till  Silas  up  and  tap  his  pipe, 

And  begged  us  all  to  pay  attention 

Because  he'd  several  things  to  mention. 

We'd  seen  the  fight  (Hear,  hear.    That's  you); 

But  still  one  task  remained  to  do, 

That  task  was  his,  he  didn't  shun  it, 

To  give  the  purse  to  him  as  won  it. 

With  this  remark,  from  start  to  out 

He'd  never  seen  a  brisker  bout. 

There  was  the  purse.    At  that  he'd  leave  it. 

Let  Kane  come  forward  to  receive  it. 

I  took  the  purse  and  hemmed  and  bowed, 
And  called  for  gin  punch  for  the  crowd; 
And  when  the  second  bowl  was  done, 
I  called,  "Let's  have  another  one." 
Si's  wife  come  in  and  sipped  and  sipped 
(As  women  will)  till  she  was  pipped. 
And  Si  hit  Dicky  Twot  a  clouter 
Because  he  put  his  arm  about  her; 
But  after  Si  got  overtasked 
She  sat  and  kissed  whoever  asked. 
My  Doxy  Jane  was  splashed  by  this, 
I  took  her  on  my  knee  to  kiss. 
And  Tom  cried  out,  "O  damn  the  gin; 
Why  can't  we  all  have  women  in? 
Bess  Evans,  now,  or  Sister  Polly, 
Or  those  two  housemaids  at  the  Folly? 
Let  someone  nip  to  Biddy  Price's, 
They'd  all  come  in  a  brace  of  trices. 
Rose  Davies,  Sue,  and  Betsy  Perks; 
[136] 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

One  man,  one  girl,  and  damn  all  Turks." 
But,  no.    "More  gin,"  they  cried;  "Come  on. 
We'll  have  the  girls  in  when  it's  gone." 
So  round  the  gin  went,  hot  and  heady, 
Hot  Hollands  punch  on  top  of  deady. 

Hot  Hollands  punch  on  top  of  stout 
Puts  madness  in  and  wisdom  out. 
From  drunken  man  to  drunken  man 
The  drunken  madness  raged  and  ran. 
"I'm  climber  Joe  who  climbed  the  spire." 
"You're  climber  Joe  the  bloody  liar." 
"Who  says  I  lie?"    "I  do." 

"You  lie, 

I  climbed  the  spire  and  had  a  fly." 
"I'm  French  Suzanne,  the  Circus  Dancer, 
I'm  going  to  dance  a  bloody  Lancer." 
"If  I'd  my  rights  I'm  Squire's  heir." 
"By  rights  I'd  be  a  millionaire." 
"By  rights  I'd  be  the  lord  of  you, 
But  Farmer  Scriggins  had  his  do, 
He  done  me,  so  I've  had  to  hoove  it, 
I  've  got  it  all  wrote  down  to  prove  it. 
And  one  of  these  dark  winter  nights 
He'll  learn  I  mean  to  have  my  rights; 
I'll  bloody  him  a  bloody  fix, 
I'll  bloody  burn  his  bloody  ricks." 

From  three  long  hours  of  gin  and  smokes, 
And  two  girls'  breath  and  fifteen  blokes, 
A  warmish  night,  and  windows  shut, 
I  i37l 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

The  room  stank  like  a  fox's  gut. 
The  heat  and  smell  and  drinking  deep 
Began  to  stun  the  gang  to  sleep. 
Some  fell  downstairs  to  sleep  on  the  mat, 
Some  snored  it  sodden  where  they  sat. 
Dick  Twot  had  lost  a  tooth  and  wept, 
But  all  the  drunken  others  slept. 
Jane  slept  beside  me  in  the  chair, 
And  I  got  up;  I  wanted  air. 

I  opened  window  wide  and  leaned 
Out  of  that  pigstye  of  the  fiend 
And  felt  a  cool  wind  go  like  grace 
About  the  sleeping  market-place. 
The  clock  struck  three,  and  sweetly,  slowly, 
The  bells  chimed  Holy,  Holy,  Holy; 
And  in  a  second's  pause  there  fell 
The  cold  note  of  the  chapel  bell, 
And  then  a  cock  crew,  flapping  wings, 
And  summat  made  me  think  of  things. 
How  long  those  ticking  clocks  had  gone 
From  church  and  chapel,  on  and  on, 
Ticking  the  time  out,  ticking  slow 
To  men  and  girls  who'd  come  and  go, 
And  how  they  ticked  in  belfry  dark 
When  half  the  town  was  bishop's  park, 
And  how  they'd  rung  a  chime  full  tilt 
The  night  after  the  church  was  built, 
And  how  that  night  was  Lambert's  Feast, 
The  night  I'd  fought  and  been  a  beast. 
And  how  a  change  had  come.    And  then 
I  thought,  "You  tick  to  different  men." 


[138! 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

What  with  the  fight  and  what  with  drinking 

And  being  awake  alone  there  thinking, 

My  mind  began  to  carp  and  tetter, 

"If  this  life's  all,  the  beasts  are  better." 

And  then  I  thought,  "I  wish  I'd  seen 

The  many  towns  this  town  has  been; 

I  wish  I  knew  if  they'd  a  got 

A  kind  of  summat  we've  a-not, 

If  them  as  built  the  church  so  fair 

Were  half  the  chaps  folk  say  they  were; 

For  they'd  the  skill  to  draw  their  plan, 

And  skill's  a  joy  to  any  man; 

And  they'd  the  strength,  not  skill  alone, 

To  build  it  beautiful  in  stone; 

And  strength  and  skill  together  thus 

O,  they  were  happier  men  than  us. 

But  if  they  were,  they  had  to  die 
The  same  as  every  one  and  I. 
And  no  one  lives  again,  but  dies, 
And  all  the  bright  goes  out  of  eyes, 
And  all  the  skill  goes  out  of  hands, 
And  all  the  wise  brain  understands, 
And  all  the  beauty,  all  the  power 
Is  cut  down  like  a  withered  flower. 
In  all  the  show  from  birth  to  rest 
I  give  the  poor  dumb  cattle  best." 

I  wondered,  then,  why  life  should  be, 

And  what  would  be  the  end  of  me 

When  youth  and  health  and  strength  were  gone 

And  cold  old  age  came  creeping  on? 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

A  keeper's  gun  ?    The  Union  ward  ? 

Or  that  new  quod  at  Hereford  ? 

And  looking  round  I  felt  disgust 

At  all  the  nights  of  drink  and  lust, 

And  all  the  looks  of  all  the  swine 

Who'd  said  that  they  were  friends  of  mine; 

And  yet  I  knew,  when  morning  came, 

The  morning  would  be  just  the  same, 

For  I'd  have  drinks  and  Jane  would  meet  me 

And  drunken  Silas  Jones  would  greet  me, 

And  I'd  risk  quod  and  keeper's  gun 

Till  all  the  silly  game  was  done. 

"For  parson  chaps  are  mad,  supposin' 

A  chap  can  change  the  road  he's  chosen." 

And  then  the  Devil  whispered,  "Saul, 

Why  should  you  want  to  live  at  all? 

Why  fret  and  sweat  and  try  to  mend? 

It's  all  the  same  thing  in  the  end. 

But  when  it's  done,"  he  said,  "it's  ended. 

Why  stand  it,  since  it  can't  be  mended?" 

And  in  my  heart  I  heard  him  plain, 

"Throw  yourself  down  and  end  it,  Kane." 

"Why  not?"  said  I.    "Why  not?    But  no. 
I  won't.    I've  never  had  my  go. 
I've  not  had  all  the  world  can  give. 
Death  by  and  by,  but  first  I'll  live. 
The  world  owes  me  my  time  of  times, 
And  that  time's  coming  now,  by  crimes." 

A  madness  took  me  then.    I  felt 
I'd  like  to  hit  the  world  a  belt. 

[140] 


I  felt  that  I  could  fly  through  air, 

A  screaming  star  with  blazing  hair, 

A  rushing  comet,  crackling,  numbing 

The  folk  with  fear  of  judgment  coming, 

A  'Lijah  in  a  fiery  car, 

Coming  to  tell  folk  what  they  are. 

"That's  what  I'll  do,"  I  shouted  loud, 

"I'll  tell  this  sanctimonious  crowd 

This  town  of  window  peeping,  prying, 

Maligning,  peering,  hinting,  lying, 

Male  and  female  human  blots 

Who  would,  but  daren't  be,  whores  and  sots, 

That  they're  so  steeped  in  petty  vice 

That  they're  less  excellent  than  lice, 

That  they're  so  soaked  in  petty  virtue 

That  touching  one  of  them  will  dirt  you, 

Dirt  you  with  the  stain  of  mean 

Cheating  trade  and  going  between, 

Pinching,  starving,  scraping,  hoarding, 

Spying  through  the  chinks  of  boarding 

To  see  if  Sue,  the  prentice  lean, 

Dares  to  touch  the  margarine. 

Fawning,  cringing,  oiling  boots, 

Raging  in  the  crowd's  pursuits, 

Flinging  stones  at  all  the  Stephens, 

Standing  firm  with  all  the  evens 

Making  hell  for  all  the  odd, 

All  the  lonely  ones  of  God, 

Those  poor  lonely  ones  who  find 

Dogs  more  mild  than  human  kind. 

For  dogs,"  I  said,  "  are  nobles  born 

To  most  of  you,  you  cockled  corn. 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

I've  known  dogs  to  leave  their  dinner, 
Nosing  a  kind  heart  in  a  sinner. 
Poor  old  Crafty  wagged  his  tail 
The  day  I  first  came  home  from  jail. 
When  all  my  folk,  so  primly  clad, 
Glowered  black  and  thought  me  mad, 
And  muttered  how  they'd  been  respected, 
While  I  was  what  they'd  all  expected. 
(I've  thought  of  that  old  dog  for  years, 
And  of  how  near  I  come  to  tears.) 

But  you,  you  minds  of  bread  and  cheese, 
Are  less  divine  that  that  dog's  fleas. 
You  suck  blood  from  kindly  friends, 
And  kill  them  when  it  serves  your  ends. 
Double  traitors,  double  black, 
Stabbing  only  in  the  back, 
Stabbing  with  the  knives  you  borrow 
From  the  friends  you  bring  to  sorrow. 
You  stab  all  that's  true  and  strong, 
Truth  and  strength  you  say  are  wrong, 
Meek  and  mild,  and  sweet  and  creeping. 
Repeating,  canting,  cadging,  peeping, 
That's  the  art  and  that's  the  life 
To  win  a  man  his  neighbour's  wife. 
All  that's  good  and  all  that's  true, 
You  kill  that,  so  I'll  kill  you." 

At  that  I  tore  my  clothes  in  shreds 
And  hurled  them  on  the  window  leads; 
I  flung  my  boots  through  both  the  winders 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

And  knocked  the  glass  to  little  flinders; 
The  punch  bowl  and  the  tumblers  followed, 
And  then  I  seized  the  lamps  and  holloed, 
And  down  the  stairs,  and  tore  back  bolts, 
As  mad  as  twenty  blooded  colts; 
And  out  into  the  street  I  pass, 
As  mad  as  two-year-olds  at  grass, 
A  naked  madman  waving  grand 
A  blazing  lamp  in  either  hand. 
I  yelled  like  twenty  drunken  sailors, 
"The  devil's  come  among  the  tailors." 
A  blaze  of  flame  behind  me  streamed, 
And  then  I  clashed  the  lamps  and  screamed 
"I'm  Satan,  newly  come  from  hell." 
And  then  I  spied  the  fire  bell. 

I've  been  a  ringer,  so  I  know 
How  best  to  make  a  big  bell  go. 
So  on  to  bell-rope  swift  I  swoop, 
And  stick  my  one  foot  in  the  loop 
And  heave  a  down-swig  till  I  groan, 
"Awake,  you  swine,  you  devil's  own." 
I  made  the  fire-bell  awake, 
I  felt  the  bell-rope  throb  and  shake; 
I  felt  the  air  mingle  and  clang 
And  beat  the  walls  a  muffled  bang, 
And  stifle  back  and  boom  and  bay 
Like  muffled  peals  on  Boxing  Day, 
And  then  surge  up  and  gather  shape, 
And  spread  great  pinions  and  escape; 
And  each  great  bird  of  clanging  shrieks 
0  Fire!    Fire,  from  iron  beaks. 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

My  shoulders  cracked  to  send  around 
Those  shrieking  birds  made  out  of  sound 
With  news  of  fire  in  their  bills. 
(They  heard  'em  plain  beyond  Wall  Hills.) 

Up  go  the  winders,  out  come  heads, 
I  heard  the  springs  go  creak  in  beds; 
But  still  I  heave  and  sweat  and  tire, 
And  still  the  clang  goes  "Fire,  Fire!" 
"Where  is  it,  then?    Who  is  it,  there? 
You  ringer,  stop,  and  tell  us  where." 
"Run  round  and  let  the  Captain  know." 
"It  must  be  bad,  he's  ringing  so," 
"It's  in  the  town,  I  see  the  flame; 
Look  there!    Look  there,  how  red  it  came." 
"Where  is  it,  then?    O  stop  the  bell." 
I  stopped  and  called:  "It's  fire  of  hell; 
And  this  is  Sodom  and  Gomorrah, 
And  now  I'll  burn  you  up,  begorra." 

By  this  the  firemen  were  mustering, 
The  half-dressed  stable  men  were  flustering, 
Backing  the  horses  out  of  stalls 
While  this  man  swears  and  that  man  bawls, 
"Don't  take  th'  old  mare.    Back,  Toby,  back. 
Back,  Lincoln.    Where's  the  fire,  Jack?" 
"Damned  if  I  know.    Out  Preston  way." 
"No.    It's  at  Chancey's  Pitch,  they  say." 
"It's  sixteen  ricks  at  Pauntley  burnt." 
"You  back  old  Darby  out,  I  durn't." 
They  ran  the  big  red  engine  out, 
[144] 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

And  put  'em  to  with  damn  and  shout. 

And  then  they  start  to  raise  the  shire, 

"Who  brought  the  news,  and  where's  the  fire?" 

They'd  moonlight,  lamps,  and  gas  to  light  'em. 

I  give  a  screech-owl's  screech  to  fright  'em, 

And  snatch  from  underneath  their  noses 

The  nozzles  of  the  fire  hoses. 

"I  am  the  fire.    Back,  stand  back, 

Or  else  I'll  fetch  your  skulls  a  crack; 

D'you  see  these  copper  nozzles  here? 

They  weigh  ten  pounds  apiece,  my  dear; 

I'm  fire  of  hell  come  up  this  minute 

To  burn  this  town,  and  all  that's  in  it. 

To  burn  you  dead  and  burn  you  clean, 

You  cogwheels  in  a  stopped  machine, 

You  hearts  of  snakes,  and  brains  of  pigeons, 

You  dead  devout  of  dead  religions, 

You  offspring  of  the  hen  and  ass, 

By  Pilate  ruled,  and  Caiaphas. 

Now  your  account  is  totted.    Learn 

Hell's  flames  are  loose  and  you  shall  burn." 

At  that  I  leaped  and  screamed  and  ran, 
I  heard  their  cries  go,  "Catch  him,  man." 
"Who  was  it?"    "Down  him."    "  Out  him,  Em." 
"Duck  him  at  pump,  we'll  see  who'll  burn." 
A  policeman  clutched,  a  fireman  clutched, 
A  dozen  others  snatched  and  touched. 
"  By  God,  he's  stripped  down  to  his  bufF." 
"  By  God,  we'll  make  him  warm  enough." 
"After  him,"  "Catch  him,"  Out  him,"  "Scrob  him.' 
"We'll  give  him  hell."    "  By  God,  we'll  mob  him." 
[i4Sl 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

"We'll  duck  him,  scrout  him,  flog  him,  fratch  him.' 
"All  right,"  I  said.    "But  first  you'll  catch  him." 

The  men  who  don't  know  to  the  root 

The  joy  of  being  swift  of  foot, 

Have  never  known  divine  and  fresh 

The  glory  of  the  gift  of  flesh, 

Nor  felt  the  feet  exult,  nor  gone 

Along  a  dim  road,  on  and  on, 

Knowing  again  the  bursting  glows, 

The  mating  hare  in  April  knows, 

Who  tingles  to  the  pads  with  mirth 

At  being  the  swiftest  thing  on  earth. 

O,  if  you  want  to  know  delight, 

Run  naked  in  an  autumn  night, 

And  laugh,  as  I  laughed  then,  to  find 

A  running  rabble  drop  behind, 

And  whang,  on  every  door  you  pass, 

Two  copper  nozzles,  tipped  with  brass, 

And  doubly  whang  at  every  turning, 

And  yell,  "All  hell's  let  loose,  and  burning." 

I  beat  my  brass  and  shouted  fire 
At  doors  of  parson,  lawyer,  squire, 
At  all  three  doors  I  threshed  and  slammed 
And  yelled  aloud  that  they  were  damned. 
I  clodded  squire's  glass  with  turves 
Because  he  spring-gunned  his  preserves. 
Through  parson's  glass  my  nozzle  swishes 
Because  he  stood  for  loaves  and  fishes, 
But  parson's  glass  I  spared  a  tittle. 
[146! 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

He  give  me  a  orange  once  when  little, 
And  he  who  gives  a  child  a  treat 
Makes  joy-bells  ring  in  Heaven's  street, 
And  he  who  gives  a  child  a  home 
Builds  palaces  in  Kingdom  come, 
And  she  who  gives  a  baby  birth 
Brings  Saviour  Christ  again  to  Earth, 
For  life  is  joy,  and  mind  is  fruit, 
And  body's  precious  earth  and  root. 
But  lawyer's  glass — well,  never  mind, 
Th'old  Adam's  strong  in  me,  I  find. 
God  pardon  man,  and  may  God's  son 
Forgive  the  evil  things  I've  done. 

What  more?  By  Dirty  Lane  I  crept 
Back  to  the  Lion,  where  I  slept. 
The  raging  madness  hot  and  floodin* 
Boiled  itself  out  and  left  me  sudden, 
Left  me  worn  out  and  sick  and  cold, 
Aching  as  though  I'd  all  grown  old; 

50  there  I  lay,  and  there  they  found  me 
On  door-mat,  with  a  curtain  round  me. 

51  took  my  heels  and  Jane  my  head 
And  laughed,  and  carried  me  to  bed. 

And  from  the  neighbouring  street  they  reskied 
My  boots  and  trousers,  coat  and  weskit; 
They  bath-bricked  both  the  nozzles  bright 
To  be  mementoes  of  the  night, 
And  knowing  what  I  should  awake  with 
They  flannelled  me  a  quart  to  slake  with, 
And  sat  and  shook  till  half  past  two 
Expecting  Police  Inspector  Drew. 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

I  woke  and  drank,  and  went  to  meat 

In  clothes  still  dirty  from  the  street. 

Down  in  the  bar  I  heard  'em  tell 

How  someone  rang  the  fire  bell, 

And  how  th'  inspector's  search  had  thriven, 

And  how  five  pounds  reward  was  given. 

And  Shepherd  Boyce,  of  Marley,  glad  us 

By  saying  it  was  blokes  from  mad'us, 

Or  two  young  rips  lodged  at  the  Prince 

Whom  none  had  seen  nor  heard  of  since, 

Or  that  young  blade  from  Worcester  Walk. 

(You  know  how  country  people  talk). 

Young  Joe  the  ostler  come  in  sad, 

He  said  th'old  mare  had  bit  his  dad. 

He  said  there'd  come  a  blazing  screeching 

Daft  Bible-prophet  chap  a-preaching, 

Had  put  th'old  mare  in  such  a  taking 

She'd  thought  the  bloody  earth  was  quaking. 

And  others  come  and  spread  a  tale 

Of  cut-throats  out  of  Gloucester  jail, 

And  how  we  needed  extra  cops 

With  all  them  Welsh  come  picking  hops: 

With  drunken  Welsh  in  all  our  sheds 

We  might  be  murdered  in  our  beds. 

By  all  accounts,  both  men  and  wives 
Had  had  the  scare  up  of  their  lives. 

I  ate  and  drank  and  gathered  strength, 
And  stretched  along  the  bench  full  length, 
Or  crossed  to  window  seat  to  pat 
[148] 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

Black  Silas  Jones's  little  cat. 

At  four  I  called,  "You  devil's  own, 

The  second  trumpet  shall  be  blown. 

The  second  trump,  the  second  blast; 

Hell's  flames  are  loosed,  and  judgment's  passed. 

Too  late  for  mercy  now.    Take  warning. 

I'm  death  and  hell  and  Judgment  morning." 

I  hurled  the  bench  into  the  settle, 

I  banged  the  table  on  the  kettle, 

I  sent  Joe's  quart  of  cider  spinning. 

"Lo,  here  begins  my  second  inning.'* 

Each  bottle,  mug,  and  jug  and  pot 

I  smashed  to  crocks  in  half  a  tot; 

And  Joe,  and  Si,  and  Nick,  and  Percy 

I  rolled  together  topsy  versy. 

And  as  I  ran  I  heard  'em  call, 

"Now  damn  to  hell,  what's  gone  with  Saul?" 

Out  into  street  I  ran  uproarious 
The  devil  dancing  in  me  glorious. 
And  as  I  ran  I  yell  and  shriek 
"Come  on,  now,  turn  the  other  cheek." 
Across  the  way  by  almshouse  pump 
I  see  old  puffing  parson  stump. 
Old  parson,  red-eyed  as  a  ferret 
From  nightly  wrestlings  with  the  spirit; 
I  ran  across,  and  barred  his  path. 
His  turkey  gills  went  red  as  wrath 
And  then  he  froze,  as  parsons  can. 
"The  police  will  deal  with  you,  my  man." 
"Not  yet,"  said  I,  "not  yet  they  won't; 
And  now  you'll  hear  me,  like  or  don't. 
[i49l 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

The  English  Church  both  is  and  was 

A  subsidy  of  Caiaphas. 

I  don't  believe  in  Prayer  nor  Bible, 

They're  lies  all  through,  and  you're  a  libel, 

A  libel  on  the  Devil's  plan 

When  first  he  miscreated  man. 

You  mumble  through  a  formal  code 

To  get  which  martyrs  burned  and  glowed. 

I  look  on  martyrs  as  mistakes, 
But  still  they  burned  for  it  at  stakes; 
Your  only  fire's  the  jolly  fire 
Where  you  can  guzzle  port  with  Squire, 
And  back  and  praise  his  damned  opinions 
About  his  temporal  dominions. 
You  let  him  give  the  man  who  digs, 
A  filthy  hut  unfit  for  pigs, 
Without  a  well,  without  a  drain, 
With  mossy  thatch  that  lets  in  rain, 
Without  a  'lotment,  Mess  he  rent  it, 
And  never  meat,  unless  he  scent  it, 
But  weekly  doles  of  'leven  shilling 
To  make  a  grown  man  strong  and  willing, 
To  do  the  hardest  work  on  earth 
And  feed  his  wife  when  she  gives  birth, 
And  feed  his  little  children's  bones. 
I  tell  you,  man,  the  Devil  groans. 
With  all  your  main  and  all  your  might 
You  back  what  is  against  what's  right; 
You  let  the  Squire  do  things  like  these, 
You  back  him  in't  and  give  him  ease, 
You  take  his  hand,  and  drink  his  wine, 
[150] 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

And  he's  a  hog,  but  you're  a  swine. 
For  you  take  gold  to  teach  God's  ways 
And  teach  man  how  to  sing  God's  praise. 
And  now  I'll  tell  you  what  you  teach 
In  downright  honest  English  speech. 

"You  teach  the  ground-down  starving  man 

That  Squire's  greed's  Jehovah's  plan. 

You  get  his  learning  circumvented 

Lest  it  should  make  him  discontented 

(Better  a  brutal,  starving  nation 

Than  men  with  thoughts  above  their  station), 

You  let  him  neither  read  nor  think, 

You  goad  his  wretched  soul  to  drink 

And  then  to  jail,  the  drunken  boor; 

O  sad  intemperance  of  the  poor. 

You  starve  his  soul  till  it's  rapscallion, 

Then  blame  his  flesh  for  being  stallion. 

You  send  your  wife  around  to  paint 

The  golden  glories  of  "  restraint." 

How  moral  exercise  bewild'rin' 

Would  soon  result  in  fewer  children. 

You  work  a  day  in  Squire's  fields 

And  see  what  sweet  restraint  it  yields, 

A  woman's  day  at  turnip  picking, 

Your  heart's  too  fat  for  plough  or  ricking. 

"And  you  whom  luck  taught  French  and  Greek 

Have  purple  flaps  on  either  cheek, 

A  stately  house,  and  time  for  knowledge, 

And  gold  to  send  your  sons  to  college, 

That  pleasant  place,  where  getting  learning 

Is  also  key  to  money  earning. 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

But  quite  your  damndest  want  of  grace 
Is  what  you  do  to  save  your  face; 
The  way  you  sit  astride  the  gates 
By  padding  wages  out  of  rates; 
Your  Christmas  gifts  of  shoddy  blankets 
That  every  working  soul  may  thank  its 
Loving  parson,  loving  squire 
Through  whom  he  can't  afford  a  fire. 
Your  well-packed  bench,  your  prison  pen, 
To  keep  them  something  less  than  men; 
Your  friendly  clubs  to  help  'em  bury, 
Your  charities  of  midwifery. 
Your  bidding  children  duck  and  cap 
To  them  who  give  them  workhouse  pap. 
O,  what  you  are,  and  what  you  preach, 
And  what  you  do,  and  what  you  teach 
Is  not  God's  Word,  nor  honest  schism, 
But  Devil's  cant  and  pauperism." 

By  this  time  many  folk  had  gathered 

To  listen  to  me  while  I  blathered; 

I  said  my  piece,  and  when  I'd  said  it, 

I'll  do  old  purple  parson  credit, 

He  sunk  (as  sometimes  parsons  can) 

His  coat's  excuses  in  the  man. 

"You  think  that  Squire  and  I  are  kings 

Who  made  the  existing  state  of  things, 

And  made  it  ill.    I  answer,  No, 

States  are  not  made,  nor  patched;  they  grow, 

Grow  slow  through  centuries  of  pain 

And  grow  correctly  in  the  main, 

But  only  grow  by  certain  laws 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

Of  certain  bits  in  certain  jaws. 
You  want  to  doctor  that.    Let  be. 
You  cannot  patch  a  growing  tree. 
Put  these  two  words  beneath  your  hat, 
These  two:  securus  judicat. 
The  social  states  of  human  kinds 
Are  made  by  multitudes  of  minds, 
And  after  mult^udes  of  years 
A  little  human  growth  appears 
Worth  having,  even  to  the  soul 
Who  sees  most  plain  it's  not  the  whole. 

This  state  is  dull  and  evil,  both, 
I  keep  it  in  the  path  of  growth; 
You  think  the  Church  an  outworn  fetter; 
Kane,  keep  it,  till  you've  built  a  better. 
And  keep  the  existing  social  state; 
I  quite  agree  it's  out  of  date, 
One  does  too  much,  another  shirks, 
Unjust,  I  grant;  but  still  ...  it  works. 
To  get  the  whole  world  out  of  bed 
And  washed,  and  dressed,  and  warmed,  and  fed, 
To  work,  and  back  to  bed  again, 
Believe  me,  Saul,  costs  worlds  of  pain. 
Then,  as  to  whether  true  or  sham 
That  book  of  Christ,  Whose  priest  I  am; 
The  Bible  is  a  lie,  say  you, 
Where  do  you  stand,  suppose  it  true? 
Good-bye.    But  if  you've  more  to  say, 
My  doors  are  open  night  and  day. 
Meanwhile,  my  friend,  'twould  be  no  sin 
To  mix  more  water  in  your  gin. 
[iS3l 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

We're  neither  saints  nor  Philip  Sidneys, 
But  mortal  men  with  mortal  kidneys." 

He  took  his  snuff,  amd  wheezed  a  greeting, 
And  waddled  off  to  mothers'  meeting; 
I  hung  my  head  upon  my  chest, 
I  give  old  purple  parson  best. 
For  while  the  Plough  tips  round  the  Pole 
The  trained  mind  outs  the  upright  soul, 
As  Jesus  said  the  trained  mind  might, 
Being  wiser  than  the  sons  of  light, 
But  trained  men's  minds  are  spread  so  thin 
They  let  all  sorts  of  darkness  in; 
Whatever  light  man  finds  they  doubt  it 
They  love,  not  light,  but  talk  about  it. 

But  parson'd  proved  to  people's  eyes 
That  I  was  drunk,  and  he  was  wise; 
And  people  grinned  and  women  tittered, 
And  little  children  mocked  and  twittered. 
So,  blazing  mad,  I  stalked  to  bar 
To  show  how  noble  drunkards  are, 
And  guzzled  spirits  like  a  beast, 
To  show  contempt  for  Church  and  priest, 
Until,  by  six,  my  wits  went  round 
Like  hungry  pigs  in  parish  pound. 
At  half  past  six,  rememb'ring  Jane, 
I  staggered  into  street  again 
With  mind  made  up  (or  primed  with  gin) 
To  bash  the  cop  who'd  run  me  in; 
For  well  I  knew  I'd  have  to  cock  up 
My  legs  that  night  inside  the  lock-up, 


THE  EVEfcLASf  ING  MERCY 

And  it  was  my  most  fixed  intent 

To  have  a  fight  before  I  went. 

Our  Fates  are  strange,  and  no  one  knows  his; 

Our  lovely  Saviour  Christ  disposes. 

Jane  wasn't  where  we'd  planned,  the  jade. 

She'd  thought  me  drunk  and  hadn't  stayed. 

So  I  went  up  the  Walk  to  look  for  her 

And  lingered  by  the  little  brook  for  her, 

And  dowsed  my  face,  and  drank  at  spring, 

And  watched  two  wild  duck  on  the  wing. 

The  moon  come  pale,  the  wind  come  cool, 

A  big  pike  leapt  in  Lower  Pool, 

The  peacock  screamed,  the  clouds  were  straking, 

My  cut  cheek  felt  the  weather  breaking; 

An  orange  sunset  waned  and  thinned 

Foretelling  rain  and  western  wind, 

And  while  I  watched  I  heard  distinct 

The  metals  on  the  railway  clinked. 

The  blood-edged  clouds  were  all  in  tatters, 

The  sky  and  earth  seemed  mad  as  hatters; 

They  had  a  death  look,  wild  and  odd, 

Of  something  dark  foretold  by  God. 

And  seeing  it  so,  I  felt  so  shaken 

I  wouldn't  keep  the  road  I'd  taken, 

But  wandered  back  towards  the  inn 

Resolved  to  brace  myself  with  gin. 

And  as  I  walked,  I  said,  "It's  strange, 

There's  Death  let  loose  to-night,  and  Change." 

In  Cabbage  Walk  I  made  a  haul 
Of  two  big  pears  from  lawyer's  wall, 


And,  munching  one,  I  took  the  lane 
Back  into  Market-place  again. 
Lamp-lighter  Dick  had  passed  the  turning. 
And  all  the  Homend  lamps  were  burning. 
The  windows  shone,  the  shops  were  busy, 
But  that  strange  Heaven  made  me  dizzy. 
The  sky  had  all  God's  warning  writ 
In  bloody  marks  all  over  it, 
And  over  all  I  thought  there  was 
A  ghastly  light  besides  the  gas. 
The  Devil's  tasks  and  Devil's  rages 
Were  giving  me  the  Devil's  wages. 

In  Market-place  it's  always  light, 

The  big  shop  windows  make  it  bright; 

And  in  the  press  of  people  buying 

I  spied  a  little  fellow  crying 

Because  his  mother'd  gone  inside 

And  left  him  there,  and  so  he  cried. 

And  mother'd  beat  him  when  she  found  him, 

And  mother's  whip  would  curl  right  round  him, 

And  mother'd  say  he'd  done't  to  crost  her, 

Though  there  being  crowds  about  he'd  lost  her. 

Lord,  give  to  men  who  are  old  and  rougher 
The  things  that  little  children  suffer, 
And  let  keep  bright  and  undefiled 
The  young  years  of  the  little  child. 
I  pat  his  head  at  edge  of  street 
And  gi'm  my  second  pear  to  eat. 
Right  under  lamp,  I  pat  his  head, 
"I'll  stay  till  mother  come,"  I  said, 
[156] 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

And  stay  I  did,  and  joked  and  talked, 
And  shoppers  wondered  as  they  walked. 
"There's  that  Saul  Kane,  the  drunken  blaggard, 
Talking  to  little  Jimmy  Jaggard. 
The  drunken  blaggard  reeks  of  drink." 
"Whatever  will  his  mother  think?" 
"Wherever  has  his  mother  gone? 
Nip  round  to  Mrs.  Jaggard's,  John, 
And  say  her  Jimmy's  out  again, 
In  Market-place,  with  boozer  Kane." 
"When  he  come  out  to-day  he  staggered. 
O,  Jimmy  Jaggard,  Jimmy  Jaggard." 
"His  mother's  gone  inside  to  bargain, 
Run  in  and  tell  her,  Polly  Margin, 
And  tell  her  poacher  Kane  is  tipsy 
And  selling  Jimmy  to  a  gipsy." 
"Run  in  to  Mrs.  Jaggard,  Ellen, 
Or  else,  dear  knows,  there'll  be  no  tellin', 
And  don't  dare  leave  yer  till  you've  fount  her, 
You'll  find  her  at  the  linen  counter." 
I  told  a  tale,  to  Jim's  delight, 
Of  where  the  tom-cats  go  by  night, 
And  how  when  moonlight  come  they  went 
Among  the  chimneys  black  and  bent, 
From  roof  to  roof,  from  house  to  house, 
With  little  baskets  full  of  mouse 
All  red  and  white,  both  joint  and  chop 
Like  meat  out  of  a  butcher's  shop; 
Then  all  along  the  wall  they  creep 
And  everyone  is  fast  asleep, 
And  honey-hunting  moths  go  by, 
And  by  the  bread-batch  crickets  cry; 
liS7l 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

Then  on  they  hurry,  never  waiting 

To  lawyer's  backyard  cellar  grating 

Where  Jaggard's  cat,  with  clever  paw, 

Unhooks  a  broke-brick's  secret  door; 

Then  down  into  the  cellar  black, 

Across  the  wood  slug's  slimy  track, 

Into  an  old  cask's  quiet  hollow, 

Where  they've  got  seats  for  what's  to  follow; 

Then  each  tom-cat  lights  little  candles, 

And  0,  the  stories  and  the  scandals, 

And  0,  the  songs  and  Christmas  carols, 

And  O,  the  milk  from  little  barrels. 

They  light  a  fire  fit  for  roasting 

(And  how  good  mouse-meat  smells  when  toasting), 

Then  down  they  sit  to  merry  feast 

While  moon  goes  west  and  sun  comes  east. 

Sometimes  they  make  so  merry  there 
Old  lawyer  come  to  head  of  stair 
To  'fend  with  fist  and  poker  took  firm 
His  parchments  channelled  by  the  bookworm, 
And  all  his  deeds,  and  all  his  packs 
Of  withered  ink  and  sealing  wax; 
And  there  he  stands,  with  candle  raised, 
And  listens  like  a  man  amazed, 
Or  like  a  ghost  a  man  stands  dumb  at, 
He  says,  "Hush!  Hush!  I'm  sure  there's  summat." 
He  hears  outside  the  brown  owl  call, 
He  hears  the  death-tick  tap  the  wall, 
The  gnawing  of  the  wainscot  mouse, 
The  creaking  up  and  down  the  house, 
The  unhooked  window's  hinges  ranging, 
[158] 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

The  sounds  that  say  the  wind  is  changing. 
At  last  he  turns,  and  shakes  his  head, 
"It's  nothing,  I'll  go  back  to  bed." 

And  just  then  Mrs.  Jaggard  came 
To  view  and  end  her  Jimmy's  shame. 

She  made  one  rush  and  gi'm  a  bat 
And  shook  him  like  a  dog  a  rat. 
"I  can't  turn  round  but  what  you're  straying. 
I'll  give  you  tales  and  gipsy  playing. 
I'll  give  you  wand' ring  off  like  this 
And  listening  to  whatever  'tis, 
You'll  laugh  the  little  side  of  the  can, 
You'll  have  the  whip  for  this,  my  man; 
And  not  a  bite  of  meat  nor  bread 
You'll  touch  before  you  go  to  bed. 
Some  day  you'll  break  your  mother's  heart, 
After  God  knows  she's  done  her  part, 
Working  her  arms  off  day  and  night 
Trying  to  keep  your  collars  white. 
Look  at  your  face,  too,  in  the  street. 
What  dirty  filth' ve  you  found  to  eat? 
Now  don't  you  blubber  here,  boy,  or 
I'll  give  you  sum't  to  blubber  for." 
She  snatched  him  off  from  where  we  stand 
And  knocked  the  pear-core  from  his  hand, 
And  looked  at  me,  "You  Devil's  limb, 
How  dare  you  talk  to  Jaggard's  Jim; 
You  drunken,  poaching,  boozing  brute,  you, 
If  Jaggard  was  a  man  he'd  shoot  you." 
She  glared  all  this,  but  didn't  speak, 
She  gasped,  white  hollows  in  her  cheek; 
[iS9l 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

Jimmy  was  writhing,  screaming  wild, 
The  shoppers  thought  I'd  killed  the  child. 

I  had  to  speak,  so  I  begun. 

"You'd  oughtn't  beat  your  little  son; 

He  did  no  harm,  but  seeing  him  there 

I  talked  to  him  and  gi'm  a  pear; 

I'm  sure  the  poor  child  meant  no  wrong, 

It's  all  my  fault  he  stayed  so  long, 

He'd  not  have  stayed,  mum,  I'll  be  bound 

If  I'd  not  chanced  to  come  around. 

It's  all  my  fault  he  stayed,  not  his. 

I  kept  him  here,  that's  how  it  is." 

"Oh!    And  how  dare  you,  then?"  says  she, 

"How  dare  you  tempt  my  boy  from  me? 

How  dare  you  do't,  you  drunken  swine, 

Is  he  your  child  or  is  he  mine? 

A  drunken  sot  they've  had  the  beak  to, 

Has  got  his  dirty  whores  to  speak  to, 

His  dirty  mates  with  whom  he  drink, 

Not  little  children,  one  would  think. 

Look  on  him,  there,"  she  says,  "look  on  him 

And  smell  the  stinking  gin  upon  him, 

The  lowest  sot,  the  drunknest  liar, 

The  dirtiest  dog  in  all  the  shire: 

Nice  friends  for  any  woman's  son 

After  ten  years,  and  all  she's  done. 

"For  I've  had  eight,  and  buried  five, 
And  only  three  are  left  alive. 
I've  given  them  all  we  could  afford. 
I've  taught  them  all  to  fear  the  Lord. 
[160] 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

They've  had  the  best  we  had  to  give, 
The  only  three  the  Lord  let  live. 

"For  Minnie  whom  I  loved  the  worst 
Died  mad  in  childbed  with  her  first. 
And  John  and  Mary  died  of  measles, 
And  Rob  was  drowned  at  the  Teasels. 
And  little  Nan,  dear  little  sweet, 
A  cart  run  over  in  the  street; 
Her  little  shift  was  all  one  stain, 
I  prayed  God  put  her  out  of  pain. 
And  all  the  rest  are  gone  or  going 
The  road  to  hell,  and  there's  no  knowing 
For  all  I've  done  and  all  I've  made  them 
I'd  better  not  have  overlaid  them. 
For  Susan  went  the  ways  of  shame 
The  time  the  'till'ry  regiment  came, 
And  t'have  her  child  without  a  father 
I  think  I'd  have  her  buried  rather. 
And  Dicky  boozes,  God  forgimme, 
And  now't's  to  be  the  same  with  Jimmy. 
And  all  I've  done  and  all  I've  bore 
Has  made  a  drunkard  and  a  whore, 
A  bastard  boy  who  wasn't  meant, 
And  Jimmy  gwine  where  Dicky  went; 
For  Dick  began  the  self-same  way 
And  my  old  hairs  are  going  gray, 
And  my  poor  man's  a  withered  knee, 
And  all  the  burden  falls  on  me. 
"I've  washed  eight  little  children's  limbs, 
I've  taught  eight  little  souls  their  hymns, 
I've  risen  sick  and  lain  down  pinched 
[161] 


And  borne  it  all  and  never  flinched; 

But  to  see  him,  the  town's  disgrace, 

With  God's  commandments  broke  in's  face, 

Who  never  worked,  not  he,  nor  earned, 

Nor  will  do  till  the  seas  are  burned, 

Who  never  did  since  he  was  whole 

A  hand's  turn  for  a  human  soul, 

But  poached  and  stole  and  gone  with  women, 

And  swilled  down  gin  enough  to  swim  in, 

To  see  him  only  lift  one  finger 

To  make  my  little  Jimmy  linger. 

In  spite  of  all  his  mother's  prayers, 

And  all  her  ten  long  years  of  cares, 

And  all  her  broken  spirit's  cry 

That  drunkard's  finger  puts  them  by, 

And  Jimmy  turns.    And  now  I  see 

That  just  as  Dick  was,  Jim  will  be, 

And  all  my  life  will  have  been  vain. 

I  might  have  spared  myself  the  pain, 

And  done  the  world  a  blessed  riddance 

If  I'd  a  drowned  'em  all  like  kittens. 

And  he  the  sot,  so  strong  and  proud, 

Who'd  make  white  shirts  of's  mother's  shroud, 

He  laughs  now,  it's  a  joke  to  him, 

Though  it's  the  gates  of  hell  to  Jim. 

"I've  had  my  heart  burnt  out  like  coal, 
And  drops  of  blood  wrung  from  my  soul 
Day  in,  day  out,  in  pain  and  tears, 
For  five  and  twenty  wretched  years; 
And  he,  he's  ate  the  fat  and  sweet, 
And  loafed  and  spat  at  top  of  street, 
[162] 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

And  drunk  and  leched  from  day  till  morrow, 
And  never  known  a  moment's  sorrow. 
He  come  out  drunk  from  th'  inn  to  look 
The  day  my  little  Nan  was  took; 
He  sat  there  drinking,  glad  and  gay, 
The  night  my  girl  was  led  astray; 
He  praised  my  Dick  for  singing  well, 
The  night  Dick  took  the  road  to  hell; 
And  when  my  corpse  goes  stiff  and  blind, 
Leaving  four  helpless  souls  behind, 
He  will  be  there  still,  drunk  and  strong. 
It  do  seem  hard.    It  do  seem  wrong. 
But  '  Woe  to  him  by  whom  the  offence/ 
Says  our  Lord  Jesus'  Testaments. 
Whatever  seems,  God  doth  not  slumber 
Though  he  lets  pass  times  without  number. 
He'll  come  with  trump  to  call  his  own, 
And  this  world's  way'll  be  overthrown. 
He'll  come  with  glory  and  with  fire 
To  cast  great  darkness  on  the  liar, 
To  burn  the  drunkard  and  the  treacher, 
And  do  his  judgment  on  the  lecher, 
To  glorify  the  spirits'  faces 
Of  those  whose  ways  were  stony  places. 
Who  chose  with  Ruth  the  better  part; 
O  Lord,  I  see  Thee  as  Thou  art, 
O  God,  the  fiery  four-edged  sword, 
The  thunder  of  the  wrath  outpoured, 
The  fiery  four-faced  creatures  burning, 
And  all  the  four-faced  wheels  all  turning, 
Coming  with  trump  and  fiery  saint. 
Jim,  take  me  home,  I'm  turning  faint." 
[163] 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

They  went,  and  some  cried,  "Good  old  sod." 
"She  put  it  to  him  straight,  by  God." 

Summat  she  was,  or  looked,  or  said, 

Went  home  and  made  me  hang  my  head. 

I  slunk  away  into  the  night 

Knowing  deep  down  that  she  was  right. 

I'd  often  heard  religious  ranters, 

And  put  them  down  as  windy  canters, 

But  this  old  mother  made  me  see 

The  harm  I  done  by  being  me. 

Being  both  strong  and  given  to  sin 

I  'tracted  weaker  vessels  in. 

So  back  to  bar  to  get  more  drink, 

I  didn't  dare  begin  to  think, 

And  there  were  drinks  and  drunken  singing, 

As  though  this  life  were  dice  for  flinging; 

Dice  to  be  flung,  and  nothing  furder, 

And  Christ's  blood  just  another  murder. 

"Come  on,  drinks  round,  salue,  drink  hearty, 

Now,  Jane,  the  punch-bowl  for  the  party. 

If  any  here  won't  drink  with  me 

I'll  knock  his  bloody  eyes  out.    See? 

Come  on,  cigars  round,  rum  for  mine, 

Sing  us  a  smutty  song,  some  swine." 

But  though  the  drinks  and  songs  went  round 

That  thought  remained,  it  was  not  drowned. 

And  when  I'd  rise  to  get  a  light 

I'd  think,  "What's  come  to  me  to-night?" 

There's  always  crowds  when  drinks  are  standing. 
The  house  doors  slammed  along  the  landing, 
[164] 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

The  rising  wind  was  gusty  yet, 
And  those  who  came  in  late  were  wet; 
And  all  my  body's  nerves  were  snappin* 
With  sense  of  summat  'bout  to  happen, 
And  music  seemed  to  come  and  go 
And  seven  lights  danced  in  a  row. 
There  used  to  be  a  custom  then, 
Miss  Bourne,  the  Friend,  went  round  at  ten 
To  all  the  pubs  in  all  the  place, 
To  bring  the  drunkards'  souls  to  grace; 
Some  sulked,  of  course,  and  some  were  stirred, 
But  none  give  her  a  dirty  word. 
A  tall  pale  woman,  grey  and  bent, 
Folk  said  of  her  that  she  was  sent. 
She  wore  Friends'  clothes,  and  women  smiled, 
But  she'd  a  heart  just  like  a  child. 
She  come  to  us  near  closing  time 
When  we  were  at  some  smutty  rhyme, 
And  I  was  mad,  and  ripe  for  fun; 
I  wouldn't  a  minded  what  I  done. 
So  when  she  come  so  prim  and  grey 
I  pound  the  bar  and  sing,  "Hooray, 
Here's  Quaker  come  to  bless  and  kiss  us, 
Come,  have  a  gin  and  bitters,  missus, 
Or  may  be  Quaker  girls  so  prim 
Would  rather  start  a  bloody  hymn. 
Now  Dick,  oblige.    A  hymn,  you  swine, 
Pipe  up  the  'Officer  of  the  Line/ 
A  song  to  make  one's  belly  ache, 
Or  'Nell  and  Roger  at  the  Wake,' 
Or  that  sweet  song,  the  talk  in  town, 
'The  lady  fair  and  Abel  Brown.' 
[165] 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

*O,  who's  that  knocking  at  the  door,' 

Miss  Bourne'll  play  the  music  score." 

The  men  stood  dumb  as  cattle  are, 

They  grinned,  but  thought  I'd  gone  too  far, 

There  come  a  hush  and  no  one  break  it, 

They  wondered  how  Miss  Bourne  would  take  it. 

She  up  to  me  with  black  eyes  wide, 

She  looked  as  though  her  spirit  cried; 

She  took  my  tumbler  from  the  bar 

Beside  where  all  the  matches  are 

And  poured  it  out  upon  the  floor  dust, 

Among  the  fag-ends,  spit  and  saw-dust. 

"Saul  Kane,"  she  said,  "when  next  you  drink, 

Do  me  the  gentleness  to  think 

That  every  drop  of  drink  accursed 

Makes  Christ  within  you  die  of  thirst, 

That  every  dirty  word  you  say 

Is  one  more  flint  upon  His  way, 

Another  thorn  about  His  head, 

Another  mock  by  where  He  tread, 

Another  nail,  another  cross. 

All  that  you  are  is  that  Christ's  loss." 

The  clock  run  down  and  struck  a  chime 

And  Mrs.  Si  said,  "Closing  time." 

The  wet  was  pelting  on  the  pane 
And  something  broke  inside  my  brain, 
I  heard  the  rain  drip  from  the  gutters 
And  Silas  putting  up  the  shutters, 
While  one  by  one  the  drinkers  went; 
I  got  a  glimpse  of  what  it  meant, 
How  she  and  I  had  stood  before 
[166] 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

In  some  old  town  by  some  old  door 

Waiting  intent  while  someone  knocked 

Before  the  door  for  ever  locked; 

She  was  so  white  that  I  was  scared, 

A  gas  jet,  turned  the  wrong  way,  flared, 

And  Silas  snapped  the  bars  in  place. 

Miss  Bourne  stood  white  and  searched  my  face. 

When  Silas  done,  with  ends  of  tunes 

He  'gan  a  gathering  the  spittoons, 

His  wife  primmed  lips  and  took  the  till. 

Miss  Bourne  stood  still  and  I  stood  still, 

And  "Tick.  Slow.  Tick.  Slow"  went  the  clock. 

She  said,  "He  waits  until  you  knock." 

She  turned  at  that  and  went  out  swift, 

Si  grinned  and  winked,  his  missus  sniffed. 

I  heard  her  clang  the  Lion  door, 
I  marked  a  drink-drop  roll  to  floor; 
It  took  up  scraps  of  sawdust,  furry, 
And  crinkled  on,  a  half  inch,  blurry; 
A  drop  from  my  last  glass  of  gin; 
And  someone  waiting  to  come  in, 
A  hand  upon  the  door  latch  gropen 
Knocking  the  man  inside  to  open. 
I  know  the  very  words  I  said, 
They  bayed  like  bloodhounds  in  my  head. 
"The  water's  going  out  to  sea 
And  there's  a  great  moon  calling  me; 
But  there's  a  great  sun  calls  the  moon, 
And  all  God's  bells  will  carol  soon 
For  joy  and  glory  and  delight 
Of  someone  coming  home  to-night." 
[167! 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

Out  into  darkness,  out  to  night, 
My  flaring  heart  gave  plenty  light, 
So  wild  it  was  there  was  no  knowing 
Whether  the  clouds  or  stars  were  blowing; 
Blown  chimney  pots  and  folk  blown  blind, 
And  puddles  glimmering  like  my  mind, 
And  chinking  glass  from  windows  banging, 
And  inn  signs  swung  like  people  hanging, 
And  in  my  heart  the  drink  unpriced, 
The  burning  cataracts  of  Christ. 

I  did  not  think,  I  did  not  strive, 

The  deep  peace  burnt  my  me  alive; 

The  bolted  door  had  broken  in, 

I  knew  that  I  had  done  with  sin. 

I  knew  that  Christ  had  given  me  birth 

To  brother  all  the  souls  on  earth, 

And  every  bird  and  every  beast 

Should  share  the  crumbs  broke  at  the  feast. 

0  glory  of  the  lighted  mind. 

How  dead  I'd  been,  how  dumb,  how  blind. 
The  station  brook,  to  my  new  eyes, 
Was  babbling  out  of  Paradise, 
The  waters  rushing  from  the  rain 
Were  singing  Christ  has  risen  again. 

1  thought  all  earthly  creatures  knelt 
From  rapture  of  the  joy  I  felt. 

The  narrow  station-wall's  brick  ledge, 
The  wild  hop  withering  in  the  hedge, 
The  lights  in  huntsmans'  upper  storey 
Were  parts  of  an  eternal  glory, 
[168] 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

Were  God's  eternal  garden  flowers. 
I  stood  in  bliss  at  this  for  hours. 

O  glory  of  the  lighted  soul. 
The  dawn  came  up  on  Bradlow  Knoll, 
The  dawn  with  glittering  on  the  grasses, 
The  dawn  which  pass  and  never  passes. 

"It's  dawn,"  I  said,  "And  chimney's  smoking, 
And  all  the  blessed  fields  are  soaking. 
It's  dawn,  and  there's  an  engine  shunting; 
And  hounds,  for  huntsman's  going  hunting. 
It's  dawn,  and  I  must  wander  north 
Along  the  road  Christ  led  me  forth." 

So  up  the  road  I  wander  slow 
Past  where  the  snowdrops  used  to  grow 
With  celandines  in  early  springs, 
When  rainbows  were  triumphant  things 
And  dew  so  bright  and  flowers  so  glad, 
Eternal  joy  to  lass  and  lad. 
And  past  the  lovely  brook  I  paced, 
The  brook  whose  source  I  never  traced, 
The  brook,  the  one  of  two  which  rise 
In  my  green  dream  in  Paradise, 
In  wells  where  heavenly  buckets  clink 
To  give  God's  wandering  thirsty  drink 
By  those  clean  cots  of  carven  stone 
Where  the  clear  water  sings  alone. 
Then  down,  past  that  white-blossomed  pond, 
And  past  the  chestnut  trees  beyond, 
And  past  the  bridge  the  fishers  knew, 
Where  yellow  flag  flowers  once  grew, 
[169] 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

Where  we'd  go  gathering  cops  of  clover, 
In  sunny  June  times  long  since  over. 
O  clover-cops  half  white,  half  red, 
O  beauty  from  beyond  the  dead. 
O  blossom,  key  to  earth  and  heaven, 

0  souls  that  Christ  has  new  forgiven. 

Then  down  the  hill  to  gipsies'  pitch 

By  where  the  brook  clucks  in  the  ditch. 

A  gipsy's  camp  was  in  the  copse, 

Three  felted  tents,  with  beehive  tops, 

And  round  black  marks  where  fires  had  been, 

And  one  old  waggon  painted  green, 

And  three  ribbed  horses  wrenching  grass, 

And  three  wild  boys  to  watch  me  pass, 

And  one  old  woman  by  the  fire 

Hulking  a  rabbit  warm  from  wire. 

1  loved  to  see  the  horses  bait. 

I  felt  I  walked  at  Heaven's  gate, 
That  Heaven's  gate  was  opened  wide 
Yet  still  the  gipsies  camped  outside. 
The  waste  souls  will  prefer  the  wild, 
Long  after  life  is  meek  and  mild. 
Perhaps  when  man  has  entered  in 
His  perfect  city  free  from  sin, 
The  campers  will  come  past  the  walls 
With  old  lame  horses  full  of  galls, 
And  waggons  hung  about  with  withies, 
And  burning  coke  in  tinker's  stithies, 
And  see  the  golden  town,  and  choose, 
And  think  the  wild  too  good  to  lose. 
And  camp  outside,  as  these  camped  then 
[170] 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

With  wonder  at  the  entering  men. 
So  past,  and  past  the  stone  heap  white 
That  dewberry  trailers  hid  from  sight, 
And  down  the  field  so  full  of  springs, 
Where  mewing  peewits  clap  their  wings, 
And  past  the  trap  made  for  the  mill 
Into  the  field  below  the  hill. 
There  was  a  mist  along  the  stream, 
A  wet  mist,  dim,  like  in  a  dream; 
I  heard  the  heavy  breath  of  cows, 
And  waterdrops  from  th'alder  boughs; 
And  eels,  or  snakes,  in  dripping  grass, 
Whipping  aside  to  let  me  pass. 
The  gate  was  backed  against  the  ryme 
To  pass  the  cows  at  milking  time. 
And  by  the  gate  as  I  went  out 
A  moldwarp  rooted  earth  wi's  snout. 
A  few  steps  up  the  Callows'  Lane 
Brought  me  above  the  mist  again, 
The  two  great  fields  arose  like  death 
Above  the  mists  of  human  breath. 

All  earthly  things  that  blessed  morning 
Were  everlasting  joy  and  warning. 
The  gate  was  Jesus'  way  made  plain, 
The  mole  was  Satan  foiled  again, 
Black  blinded  Satan  snouting  way 
Along  the  red  of  Adam's  clay; 
The  mist  was  error  and  damnation, 
The  lane  the  road  unto  salvation. 
Out  of  the  mist  into  the  light, 
O  blessed  gift  of  inner  sight. 
[171! 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

The  past  was  faded  like  a  dream; 
There  come  the  jingling  of  a  team, 
A  ploughman's  voice,  a  clink  of  chain, 
Slow  hoofs,  and  harness  under  strain. 
Up  the  slow  slope  a  team  came  bowing, 
Old  Callow  at  his  autumn  ploughing, 
Old  Callow,  stooped  above  the  hales, 
Ploughing  the  stubble  into  wales. 
His  grave  eyes  looking  straight  ahead, 
Shearing  a  long  straight  furrow  red; 
His  plough-foot  high  to  give  it  earth 
To  bring  new  food  for  men  to  birth. 
O  wet  red  swathe  of  earth  laid  bare, 
O  truth,  O  strength,  O  gleaming  share, 
O  patient  eyes  that  watch  the  goal, 
O  ploughman  of  the  sinner's  soul. 

0  Jesus,  drive  the  coulter  deep 

To  plough  my  living  man  from  sleep. 

Slow  up  the  hill  the  plough  team  plod, 

Old  Callow  at  the  task  of  God, 

Helped  by  man's  wit,  helped  by  the  brute, 

Turning  a  stubborn  clay  to  fruit, 

His  eyes  forever  on  some  sign 

To  help  him  plough  a  perfect  line. 

At  top  of  rise  the  plough  team  stopped, 

The  fore-horse  bent  his  head  and  cropped. 

Then  the  chains  chack,  the  brasses  jingle, 

The  lean  reins  gather  through  the  cringle, 

The  figures  move  against  the  sky, 

The  clay  wave  breaks  as  they  go  by. 

1  kneeled  there  in  the  muddy  fallow, 

[172! 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 


I  knew  that  Christ  was  there  with  Callow, 
That  Christ  was  standing  there  with  me, 
That  Christ  had  taught  me  what  to  be, 
That  I  should  plough,  and  as  I  ploughed 
My  Saviour  Christ  would  sing  aloud, 
And  as  I  drove  the  clods  apart 
Christ  would  be  ploughing  in  my  heart, 
Through  rest-harrow  and  bitter  roots, 
Through  all  my  bad  life's  rotten  fruits. 

O  Christ  who  holds  the  open  gate, 

O  Christ  who  drives  the  furrow  straight, 

O  Christ,  the  plough,  O  Christ,  the  laughter 

Of  holy  white  birds  flying  after, 

Lo,  all  my  heart's  field  red  and  torn, 

And  Thou  wilt  bring  the  young  green  corn, 

The  young  green  corn  divinely  springing, 

The  young  green  corn  forever  singing; 

And  when  the  field  is  fresh  and  fair 

Thy  blessed  feet  shall  glitter  there, 

And  we  will  walk  the  weeded  field, 

And  tell  the  golden  harvest's  yield, 

The  corn  that  makes  the  holy  bread 

By  which  the  soul  of  man  is  fed, 

The  holy  bread,  the  food  unpriced, 

Thy  everlasting  mercy,  Christ. 

The  share  will  jar  on  many  a  stone, 
Thou  wilt  not  let  me  stand  alone; 
And  I  shall  feel  (thou  wilt  not  fail), 
Thy  hand  on  mine  upon  the  hale. 
h73  1 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

Near  Bullen  Bank,  on  Gloucester  Road, 

Thy  everlasting  mercy  showed 

The  ploughman  patient  on  the  hill 

Forever  there,  forever  still, 

Ploughing  the  hill  with  steady  yoke 

Of  pine-trees  lightning-struck  and  broke. 

I've  marked  the  May  Hill  ploughman  stay 

There  on  his  hill,  day  after  day 

Driving  his  team  against  the  sky, 

While  men  and  women  live  and  die. 

And  now  and  then  he  seems  to  stoop 

To  clear  the  coulter  with  the  scoop, 

Or  touch  an  ox  to  haw  or  gee 

While  Severn  stream  goes  out  to  sea. 

The  sea  with  all  her  ships  and  sails, 

And  that  great  smoky  port  in  Wales, 

And  Gloucester  tower  bright  i'  the  sun, 

All  know  that  patient  wandering  one. 

And  sometimes  when  they  burn  the  leaves 

The  bonfires'  smoking  trails  and  heaves, 

And  girt  red  flames  twink  and  twire 

As  though  he  ploughed  the  hill  afire. 

And  in  men's  hearts  in  many  lands 

A  spiritual  ploughman  stands 

Forever  waiting,  waiting  now, 

The  heart's  "  Put  in,  man,  zook  the  plough.' 

By  this  the  sun  was  all  one  glitter, 
The  little  birds  were  all  in  twitter; 
Out  of  a  tuft  a  little  lark 
Went  higher  up  than  I  could  mark, 
His  little  throat  was  all  one  thirst 
[i74l 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

To  sing  until  his  heart  should  burst 
To  sing  aloft  in  golden  light 
His  song  from  blue  air  out  of  sight. 
The  mist  drove  by,  and  now  the  cows 
Came  plodding  up  to  milking  house. 
Followed  by  Frank,  the  Callows'  cowman, 
Who  whistled  "Adam  was  a  ploughman." 
There  come  such  cawing  from  the  rooks, 
Such  running  chuck  from  little  brooks, 
One  thought  it  March,  just  budding  green, 
With  hedgerows  full  of  celandine. 
An  otter  'out  of  stream  and  played, 
Two  hares  come  loping  up  and  stayed; 
Wide-eyed  and  tender-eared  but  bold. 
Sheep  bleated  up  by  Penny's  fold. 
I  heard  a  partridge  covey  call, 
The  morning  sun  was  bright  on  all. 
Down  the  long  slope  the  plough  team  drove 
The  tossing  rooks  arose  and  hove. 
A  stone  struck  on  the  share.    A  word 
Came  to  the  team.    The  red  earth  stirred. 

I  crossed  the  hedge  by  shooter's  gap, 
I  hitched  my  boxer's  belt  a  strap, 
I  jumped  the  ditch  and  crossed  the  fallow: 
I  took  the  hales  from  farmer  Callow. 


[i7Sl 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

How  swift  the  summer  goes, 
Forget-me-not,  pink,  rose. 
The  young  grass  when  I  started 
And  now  the  hay  is  carted, 
And  now  my  song  is  ended, 
And  all  the  summer  spended; 
The  blackbird's  second  brood 
Routs  beech  leaves  in  the  wood; 
The  pink  and  rose  have  speeded, 
Forget-me-not  has  seeded. 
Only  the  winds  that  blew, 
The  rain  that  makes  things  new, 
The  earth  that  hides  things  old, 
And  blessings  manifold. 

O  lovely  lily  clean, 
O  lily  springing  green, 
O  lily  bursting  white, 
Dear  lily  of  delight, 
Spring  in  my  heart  agen 
That  I  may  flower  to  men. 

GREAT  HAMPDEN.  June,  1911. 


NOTE 

"The  Everlasting  Mercy"  first  appeared  in  The  English 
Review  for  October,  1911.  I  thank  the  Editor  and  Proprietors 
of  that  paper  for  permitting  me  to  reprint  it  here.  The  persons 
and  events  described  in  the  poem  are  entirely  imaginary,  and 
no  reference  is  made  or  intended  to  any  living  person. 

JOHN  MASEFIELD. 
[176] 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 1 


PART  I 

Down  Bye  Street,  in  a  little  Shropshire  town, 
There  lived  a  widow  with  her  only  son : 
She  had  no  wealth  nor  title  to  renown, 
Nor  any  joyous  hours,  never  one. 
She  rose  from  ragged  mattress  before  sun 
And  stitched  all  day  until  her  eyes  were  red, 
And  had  to  stitch,  because  her  man  was  dead. 

Sometimes  she  fell  asleep,  she  stitched  so  hard, 

Letting  the  linen  fall  upon  the  floor; 

And  hungry  cats  would  steal  in  from  the  yard, 

And  mangy  chickens  pecked  about  the  door, 

Craning  their  necks  so  ragged  and  so  sore 

To  search  the  room  for  bread-crumbs,  or  for  mouse, 

But  they  got  nothing  in  the  widow's  house. 

Mostly  she  made  her  bread  by  hemming  shrouds 
For  one  rich  undertaker  in  the  High  Street, 
Who  used  to  pray  that  folks  might  die  in  crowds 
And  that  their  friends  might  pay  to  let  them  lie  sweet; 
And  when  one  died  the  widow  in  the  Bye  Street 
Stitched  night  and  day  to  give  the  worm  his  dole. 
The  dead  were  better  dressed  than  that  poor  soul. 

1  Copyright  in  the  United  Kingdom  and  U.  S.  A.,  1912. 
[I79l 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

Her  little  son  was  all  her  life's  delight, 
For  in  his  little  features  she  could  find 
A  glimpse  of  that  dead  husband  out  of  sight, 
Where  out  of  sight  is  never  out  of  mind. 
And  so  she  stitched  till  she  was  nearly  blind, 
Or  till  the  tallow  candle  end  was  done, 
To  get  a  living  for  her  little  son. 

Her  love  for  him  being  such  she  would  not  rest, 
It  was  a  want  which  ate  her  out  and  in, 
Another  hunger  in  her  withered  breast 
Pressing  her  woman's  bones  against  the  skin. 
To  make  him  plump  she  starved  her  body  thin. 
And  he,  he  ate  the  food,  and  never  knew, 
He  laughed  and  played  as  little  children  do. 

When  there  was  little  sickness  in  the  place 

She  took  what  God  would  send,  and  what  God  sent 

Never  brought  any  colour  to  her  face 

Nor  life  into  her  footsteps  when  she  went. 

Going,  she  trembled  always  withered  and  bent, 

For  all  went  to  her  son,  always  the  same, 

He  was  first  served  whatever  blessing  came. 

Sometimes  she  wandered  out  to  gather  sticks, 
For  it  was  bitter  cold  there  when  it  snowed. 
And  she  stole  hay  out  of  the  farmer's  ricks 
For  bands  to  wrap  her  feet  in  while  she  sewed, 
And  when  her  feet  were  warm  and  the  grate  glowed 
She  hugged  her  little  son,  her  heart's  desire, 
With  "Jimmy,  ain't  it  snug  beside  the  fire?" 
[180] 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

So  years  went  on  till  Jimmy  was  a  lad 

And  went  to  work  as  poor  lads  have  to  do, 

And  then  the  widow's  loving  heart  was  glad 

To  know  that  all  the  pains  she  had  gone  through, 

And  all  the  years  of  putting  on  the  screw, 

Down  to  the  sharpest  turn  a  mortal  can, 

Had  borne  their  fruit,  and  made  her  child  a  man. 

He  got  a  job  at  working  on  the  line, 
Tipping  the  earth  down,  trolly  after  truck, 
From  daylight  till  the  evening,  wet  or  fine, 
With  arms  all  red  from  wallowing  in  the  muck, 
And  spitting,  as  the  trolly  tipped,  for  luck, 
And  singing  "Binger"  as  he  swung  the  pick, 
Because  the  red  blood  ran  in  him  so  quick. 

So  there  was  bacon  then,  at  night,  for  supper 
In  Bye  Street  there,  where  he  and  mother  stay; 
And  boots  they  Had,  not  leaky  in  the  upper; 
And  room  rent  ready  on  the  settling  day; 
And  beer  for  poor  old  mother,  worn  and  grey, 
And  fire  in  frost;  and  in  the  widow's  eyes 
It  seemed  the  Lord  had  made  earth  paradise. 

And  there  they  sat  of  evenings  after  dark 
Singing  their  song  of  "Binger,"  he  and  she, 
Her  poor  old  cackle  made  the  mongrels  bark 
And  "You  sing  Binger,  mother,"  carols  he; 
"By  crimes,  but  that's  a  good  song,  that  her  be:" 
And  then  they  slept  there  in  the  room  they  shared, 
And  all  the  time  fate  had  his  end  prepared. 
ti8i] 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

One  thing  alone  made  life  not  perfect  sweet: 

The  mother's  daily  fear  of  what  would  come 

When  woman  and  her  lovely  boy  should  meet, 

When  the  new  wife  would  break  up  the  old  home. 

Fear  of  that  unborn  evil  struck  her  dumb, 

And  when  her  darling  and  a  woman  met, 

She  shook  and  prayed,  "Not  her,  O  God;  not  yet.' 

"Not  yet,  dear  God,  my  Jimmy  took  from  me." 
Then  she  would  subtly  question  with  her  son. 
"Not  very  handsome.  I  don't  think  her  be?" 
"God  help  the  man  who  marries  such  an  one." 
Her  red  eyes  peered  to  spy  the  mischief  done. 
She  took  great  care  to  keep  the  girls  away, 
And  all  her  trouble  made  him  easier  prey. 

There  was  a  woman  out  at  Plaister's  End, 

Light  of  her  body,  fifty  to  the  pound, 

A  copper  coin  for  any  man  to  spend, 

Lovely  to  look  on  when  the  wits  were  drowned. 

Her  husband's  skeleton  was  never  found, 

It  lay  among  the  rocks  at  Glydyr  Mor 

Where  he  drank  poison  finding  her  a  whore. 

She  was  not  native  there,  for  she  belonged 
Out  Milford  way,  or  Swansea;  no  one  knew. 
She  had  the  piteous  look  of  someone  wronged, 
"Anna,"  her  name,  a  widow,  last  of  Triw. 
She  had  lived  at  Plaister's  End  a  year  or  two; 
At  Callow's  cottage,  renting  half  an  acre; 
She  was  a  hen-wife  and  a  perfume-maker. 
[182] 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

Secret  she  was;  she  lived  in  reputation; 

But  secret  unseen  threads  went  floating  out: 

Her  smile,  her  voice,  her  face,  were  all  temptation, 

AH  subtle  flies  to  trouble  man  the  trout; 

Man  to  entice,  entrap,  entangle,  flout.    .    . 

To  take  and  spoil,  and  then  to  cast  aside: 

Gain  without  giving  was  the  craft  she  plied. 

And  she  complained,  poor  lonely  widowed  soul, 
How  no  one  cared,  and  men  were  rutters  all; 
While  true  love  is  an  ever  burning  goal 
Burning  the  brighter  as  the  shadows  fall. 
And  all  love's  dogs  went  hunting  at  the  call, 
Married  or  not  she  took  them  by  the  brain, 
Sucked  at  their  hearts  and  tossed  them  back  again. 

Like  the  straw  fires  lit  on  Saint  John's  Eve, 
She  burned  and  dwindled  in  her  fickle  heart; 
For  if  she  wept  when  Harry  took  his  leave, 
Her  tears  were  lures  to  beckon  Bob  to  start. 
And  if,  while  loving  Bob,  a  tinker's  cart 
Came  by,  she  opened  window  with  a  smile 
And  gave  the  tinker  hints  to  wait  a  while. 

She  passed  for  pure;  but,  years  before,  in  Wales, 
Living  at  Mountain  Ash  with  different  men, 
Her  less  discretion  had  inspired  tales 
Of  certain  things  she  did,  and  how,  and  when. 
Those  seven  years  of  youth;  we  are  frantic  then. 
She  had  been  frantic  in  her  years  of  youth, 
The  tales  were  not  more  evil  than  the  truth. 
[183] 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

She  had  two  children  as  the  fruits  of  trade, 
Though  she  drank  bitter  herbs  to  kill  the  curse, 
Both  of  them  sons,  and  one  she  overlaid, 
The  other  one  the  parish  had  to  nurse. 
Now  she  grew  plump  with  money  in  her  purse, 
Passing  for  pure  a  hundred  miles,  I  guess, 
From  where  her  little  son  wore  workhouse  dress. 

There  with  the  Union  boys  he  came  and  went, 
A  parish  bastard  fed  on  bread  and  tea, 
Wearing  a  bright  tin  badge  in  furthest  Gwent, 
And  no  one  knowing  who  his  folk  could  be. 
His  mother  never  knew  his  new  name:  she, — 
She  touched  the  lust  of  those  who  served  her  turn, 
And  chief  among  her  men  was  Shepherd  Ern. 

A  moody,  treacherous  man  of  bawdy  mind, 
Married  to  that  mild  girl  from  Ercall  Hill, 
Whose  gentle  goodness  made  him  more  inclined 
To  hotter  sauces  sharper  on  the  bill. 
The  new  lust  gives  the  lecher  the  new  thrill, 
The  new  wine  scratches  as  it  slips  the  throat, 
The  new  flag  is  so  bright  by  the  old  boat. 

Ern  was  her  man  to  buy  her  bread  and  meat, 
Half  of  his  weekly  wage  was  hers  to  spend, 
She  used  to  mock,  "How  is  your  wife,  my  sweet?" 
Or  wail,  "O,  Ernie,  how  is  this  to  end?" 
Or  coo,  "My  Ernie  is  without  a  friend, 
She  cannot  understand  my  precious  life," 
And  Ernie  would  go  home  and  beat  his  wife. 
[184] 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

So  the  four  souls  are  ranged,  the  chess-board  set, 
The  dark,  invisible  hand  of  secret  Fate 
Brought  it  to  come  to  being  that  they  met 
After  so  many  years  of  lying  in  wait. 
While  we  least  think  it  he  prepares  his  Mate. 
Mate,  and  the  King's  pawn  played,  it  never  ceases 
Though  all  the  earth  is  dust  of  taken  pieces. 

PART   II 

October  Fair-time  is  the  time  for  fun, 

For  all  the  street  is  hurdled  into  rows 

Of  pens  of  heifers  blinking  at  the  sun, 

And  Lemster  sheep  which  pant  and  seem  to  doze, 

And  stalls  of  hardbake  and  galanty  shows, 

And  cheapjacks  smashing  crocks,  and  trumpets  blowing, 

And  the  loud  organ  of  the  horses  going. 

There  you  can  buy  blue  ribbons  for  your  girl 
Or  take  her  in  a  swing-boat  tossing  high, 
Or  hold  her  fast  when  all  the  horses  whirl 
Round  to  the  steam  pipe  whanging  at  the  sky, 
Or  stand  her  cockshies  at  the  cocoa-shy, 
Or  buy  her  brooches  with  her  name  in  red, 
Or  Queen  Victoria  done  in  gingerbread. 

Then  there  are  rifle  shots  at  tossing  balls, 
"And  if  you  hit  you  get  a  good  cigar," 
And  strength-whackers  for  lads  to  lamm  with  mauls, 
And  Cheshire  cheeses  on  a  greasy  spar. 
The  country  folk  flock  in  from  near  and  far, 
Women  and  men,  like  blowflies  to  the  roast, 
All  love  the  fair;  but  Anna  loved  it  most. 

[185! 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

Anna  was  all  agog  to  see  the  fair; 

She  made  Ern  promise  to  be  there  to  meet  her, 

To  arm  her  round  to  all  the  pleasures  there, 

And  buy  her  ribbons  for  her  neck,  and  treat  her, 

So  that  no  woman  at  the  fair  should  beat  her 

In  having  pleasure  at  a  man's  expense. 

She  planned  to  meet  him  at  the  chapel  fence. 

So  Ernie  went;  and  Jimmy  took  his  mother, 

Dressed  in  her  finest  with  a  Monmouth  shawl; 

And  there  was  such  a  crowd  she  thought  she'd  smother, 

And  O,  she  loved  a  pep'mint  above  all. 

Clash  go  the  crockeries  where  the  cheapjacks  bawl, 

Baa  go  the  sheep,  thud  goes  the  waxwork's  drum, 

And  Ernie  cursed  for  Anna  hadn't  come. 


He  hunted  for  her  up  and  down  the  place, 
Raging  and  snapping  like  a  working  brew. 
"If  you're  with  someone  else  I'll  smash  his  face, 
And  when  I've  done  for  him  I'll  go  for  you." 
He  bought  no  fairings  as  he'd  vowed  to  do 
For  his  poor  little  children  back  at  home 
Stuck  at  the  glass  "to  see  till  father  come." 

Not  rinding  her,  he  went  into  an  inn, 
Busy  with  ringing  till  and  scratching  matches. 
Where  thirsty  drovers  mingled  stout  with  gin 
And  three  or  four  Welsh  herds  were  singing  catches. 
The  swing-doors  clattered,  letting  in  in  snatches 
The  noises  of  the  fair,  now  low,  now  loud. 
Ern  called  for  beer  and  glowered  at  the  crowd. 

['86] 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

While  he  was  glowering  at  his  drinking  there, 

In  came  the  gipsy  Bessie,  hawking  toys; 

A  bold-eyed  strapping  harlot  with  black  hair, 

One  of  the  tribe  which  camped  at  Shepherd's  Bois. 

She  lured  him  out  of  inn  into  the  noise 

Of  the  steam-organ  where  the  horses  spun, 

And  so  the  end  of  all  things  was  begun. 

Newness  in  lust,  always  the  old  in  love. 
"Put  up  your  toys,"  he  said,  "and  come  along, 
We'll  have  a  turn  of  swing  boats  up  above, 
And  see  the  murder  when  they  strike  the  gong." 
"Don't  'ee,"  she  giggled.    "My,  but  ain't  you  strong. 
And  where's  your  proper  girl?    You  don't  know  me." 
"I  do."    "You  don't."    "Why,  then,  I  will,"  said  he. 

Anna  was  late  because  the  cart  which  drove  her 
Called  for  her  late  (the  horse  had  broke  a  trace), 
She  was  all  dressed  and  scented  for  her  lover, 
Her  bright  blue  blouse  had  imitation  lace, 
The  paint  was  red  as  roses  on  her  face, 
She  hummed  a  song,  because  she  thought  to  see 
How  envious  all  the  other  girls  would  be. 

When  she  arrived  and  found  her  Ernie  gone, 
Her  bitter  heart  thought,  "This  is  how  it  is. 
Keeping  me  waiting  while  the  sports  are  on: 
Promising  faithful,  too,  and  then  to  miss. 
O,  Ernie,  won't  I  give  it  you  for  this." 
And  looking  up  she  saw  a  couple  cling, 
Ern  with  his  arm  round  Bessie  in  the  swing. 
[187] 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

Ern  caught  her  eye  and  spat,  and  cut  her  dead, 

Bessie  laughed  hardly,  in  the  gipsy  way. 

Anna,  though  blind  with  fury,  tossed  her  head, 

Biting  her  lips  until  the  red  was  grey, 

For  bitter  moments  given,  bitter  pay, 

The  time  for  payment  comes,  early  or  late, 

No  earthly  debtor  but  accounts  to  Fate. 

She  turned  aside,  telling  with  bitter  oaths 

What  Ern  should  suffer  if  he  turned  agen, 

And  there  was  Jimmy  stripping  off  his  clothes 

Within  a  little  ring  of  farming  men. 

"Now,  Jimmy,  put  the  old  tup  into  pen." 

His  mother,  watching,  thought  her  heart  would  curdle, 

To  see  Jim  drag  the  old  ram  to  the  hurdle. 

Then  the  ram  butted  and  the  game  began, 

Till  Jimmy's  muscles  cracked  and  the  ram  grunted. 

The  good  old  wrestling  game  of  Ram  and  Man, 

At  which  none  knows  the  hunter  from  the  hunted. 

"Come  and  see  Jimmy  have  his  belly  bunted." 

"Good  tup.     Good  Jim.    Good  Jimmy.     Sick  him,  Rover, 

By  dang,  but  Jimmy's  got  him  fairly  over." 

Then  there  was  clap  of  hands  and  Jimmy  grinned 
And  took  five  silver  shillings  from  his  backers, 
And  said  th'  old  tup  had  put  him  out  of  wind 
Or  else  he'd  take  all  comers  at  the  Whackers. 
And  some  made  rude  remarks  of  rams  and  knackers, 
And  mother  shook  to  get  her  son  alone, 
So's  to  be  sure  he  hadn't  broke  a  bone. 

[188] 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

None  but  the  lucky  man  deserves  the  fair, 

For  lucky  men  have  money  and  success, 

Things  that  a  whore  is  very  glad  to  share, 

Or  dip,  at  least,  a  finger  in  the  mess. 

Anne,  with  her  raddled  cheeks  and  Sunday  dress, 

Smiled  upon  Jimmy,  seeing  him  succeed, 

As  though  to  say,  "You  are  a  man,  indeed." 

All  the  great  things  of  life  are  swiftly  done, 
Creation,  death,  and  love  the  double  gate. 
However  much  we  dawdle  in  the  sun 
We  have  to  hurry  at  the  touch  of  Fate; 
When  Life  knocks  at  the  door  no  one  can  wait, 
When  Death  makes  his  arrest  we  have  to  go. 
And  so  with  Love,  and  Jimmy  found  it  so. 

Love,  the  sharp  spear,  went  pricking  to  the  bone, 

In  that  one  look,  desire  and  bitter  aching, 

Longing  to  have  that  woman  all  alone 

For  her  dear  beauty's  sake  all  else  forsaking; 

And  sudden  agony  that  set  him  shaking 

Lest  she,  whose  beauty  made  his  heart's  blood  cruddle, 

Should  be  another  man's  to  kiss  and  cuddle. 

She  was  beside  him  when  he  left  the  ring, 
Her  soft  dress  brushed  against  him  as  he  passed  her; 
He  thought  her  penny  scent  a  sweeter  thing 
Than  precious  ointment  out  of  alabaster; 
Love,  the  mild  servant,  makes  a  drunken  master. 
She  smiled,  half  sadly,  out  of  thoughtful  eyes, 
And  all  the  strong  young  man  was  easy  prize. 

[189] 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

She  spoke,  to  take  him,  seeing  him  a  sheep, 

"How  beautiful  you  wrastled  with  the  ram, 

It  made  me  all  go  tremble  just  to  peep, 

I  am  that  fond  of  wrastling,  that  I  am. 

Why,  here's  your  mother,  too.    Good  evening,  ma'am. 

I  was  just  telling  Jim  how  well  he  done, 

How  proud  you  must  be  of  so  fine  a  son." 

Old  mother  blinked,  while  Jimmy  hardly  knew 

Whether  he  knew  the  woman  there  or  not; 

But  well  he  knew,  if  not,  he  wanted  to, 

Joy  of  her  beauty  ran  in  him  so  hot, 

Old  trembling  mother  by  him  was  forgot, 

While  Anna  searched  the  mother's  face,  to  know 

Whether  she  took  her  for  a  whore  or  no. 

The  woman's  maxim,  "Win  the  woman  first," 
Made  her  be  gracious  to  the  withered  thing. 
"This  being  in  crowds  do  give  one  such  a  thirst, 
I  wonder  if  they've  tea  going  at  '  The  King'? 
My  throat's  that  dry  my  very  tongue  do  cling, 
Perhaps  you'd  take  my  arm,  we'd  wander  up 
(If  you'd  agree)  and  try  and  get  a  cup. 

Come,  ma'am,  a  cup  of  tea  would  do  you  good 
There's  nothing  like  a  nice  hot  cup  of  tea 
After  the  crowd  and  all  the  time  you've  stood; 
And  'The  King's'  strict,  it  isn't  like  'The  Key.' 
Now,  take  my  arm,  my  dear,  and  lean  on  me. " 
And  Jimmy's  mother,  being  nearly  blind, 
Took  Anna's  arm,  and  only  thought  her  kind. 

[190] 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

So  off  they  set,  with  Anna  talking  to  her, 
How  nice  the  tea  would  be  after  the  crowd, 
And  mother  thinking  half  the  time  she  knew  her, 
And  Jimmy's  heart's  blood  ticking  quick  and  loud, 
And  Death  beside  him  knitting  at  his  shroud, 
And  all  the  High  Street  babbling  with  the  fair, 
And  white  October  clouds  in  the  blue  air. 

So  tea  was  made,  and  down  they  sat  to  drink; 
O  the  pale  beauty  sitting  at  the  board 
There  is  more  death  in  women  than  we  think, 
There  is  much  danger  in  the  soul  adored, 
The  white  hands  bring  the  poison  and  the  cord; 
Death  has  a  lodge  in  lips  as  red  as  cherries, 
Death  has  a  mansion  in  the  yew  tree  berries. 

They  sat  there  talking  after  tea  was  done, 
And  Jimmy  blushed  at  Anna's  sparkling  looks, 
And  Anna  flattered  mother  on  her  son, 
Catching  both  fishes  on  her  subtle  hooks. 
With  twilight,  tea  and  talk  in  ingle-nooks, 
And  music  coming  up  from  the  dim  street, 
Mother  had  never  known  a  fair  so  sweet. 

Now  cow-bells  clink,  for  milking-time  is  come, 
The  drovers  stack  the  hurdles  into  carts, 
New  masters  drive  the  straying  cattle  home, 
Many  a  young  calf  from  his  mother  parts, 
Hogs  straggle  back  to  sty  by  fits  and  starts; 
The  farmers  take  a  last  glass  at  the  inns, 
And  now  the  frolic  of  the  fair  begins. 
[191] 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

All  of  the  side  shows  of  the  fair  are  lighted, 

Flares  and  bright  lights,  and  brassy  cymbals  clanging, 

"Beginning  now"  and  "Everyone's  invited," 

Shatter  the  pauses  of  the  organ's  whanging, 

The  Oldest  Show  on  Earth  and  the  Last  Hanging, 

"The  Murder  in  the  Red  Barn,"  with  real  blood, 

The  rifles  crack,  the  Sally  shy-sticks  thud. 

Anna  walked  slowly  homewards  with  her  prey, 
Holding  old  tottering  mother's  weight  upon  her, 
And  pouring  in  sweet  poison  on  the  way 
Of  "Such  a  pleasure,  ma'am,  and  such  an  honour," 
And  "One's  so  safe  with  such  a  son  to  con  her 
Through  all  the  noises  and  through  all  the  press, 
Boys  daredn't  squirt  tormenters  on  her  dress." 

At  mother's  door  they  stop  to  say  "Goodnight." 

And  mother  must  go  in  to  set  the  table. 

Anna  pretended  that  she  felt  a  fright 

To  go  alone  through  all  the  merry  babel: 

"My  friends  are  waiting  at  'The  Cain  and  Abel/ 

Just  down  the  other  side  of  Market  Square, 

It'd  be  a  mercy  if  you'd  set  me  there." 

So  Jimmy  came,  while  mother  went  inside; 
Anna  has  got  her  victim  in  her  clutch. 
Jimmy,  all  blushing,  glad  to  be  her  guide, 
Thrilled  by  her  scent,  and  trembling  at  her  touch. 
She  was  all  white  and  dark,  and  said  not  much; 
She  sighed,  to  hint  that  pleasure's  grave  was  dug, 
And  smiled  within  to  see  him  such  a  mug. 

[192] 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

They  passed  the  doctor's  house  among  the  trees, 
She  sighed  so  deep  that  Jimmy  asked  her  why. 
"I'm  too  unhappy  upon  nights  like  these, 
When  everyone  has  happiness  but  I!" 
"Then,  aren't  you  happy?"    She  appeared  to  cry, 
Blinked  with  her  eyes,  and  turned  away  her  head: 
"Not  much;  but  some  men  understand,"  she  said. 

Her  voice  caught  lightly  on  a  broken  note, 
Jimmy  half-dared  but  dared  not  touch  her  hand, 
Yet  all  his  blood  went  pumping  in  his  throat 
Beside  the  beauty  he  could  understand, 
And  Death  stopped  knitting  at  the  muffling  band. 
"The  shroud  is  done,"  he  muttered,  "toe  to  chin." 
He  snapped  the  ends,  and  tucked  his  needles  in. 

Jimmy,  half  stammering,  choked,  "Has  any  man — '" 

He  stopped,  she  shook  her  head  to  answer  "No." 

"Then  tell  me."    "No.    Perhaps  some  day,  if  I  can. 

It  hurts  to  talk  of  some  things  ever  so. 

But  you're  so  different.    There,  come,  we  must  go. 

None  but  unhappy  women  know  how  good 

It  is  to  meet  a  soul  who's  understood." 

"No.    Wait  a  moment.    May  I  call  you  Anna?" 

"Perhaps.    There  must  be  nearness  'twixt  us  two." 
Love  in  her  face  hung  out  his  bloody  banner, 
And  all  love's  clanging  trumpets  shocked  and  blew 
"When  we  got  up  to-day  we  never  knew." 
"I'm  sure  I  didn't  think,  nor  you  did."    "Never." 
"And  now  this  friendship's  come  to  us  forever." 
ti93l 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

"Now,  Anna,  take  my  arm,  dear."    "Not  to-night, 
That  must  come  later  when  we  know  our  minds, 
We  must  agree  to  keep  this  evening  white, 
We'll  eat  the  fruit  to-night  and  save  the  rinds." 
And  all  the  folk  whose  shadows  darked  the  blinds, 
And  all  the  dancers  whirling  in  the  fair, 
Were  wretched  worms  to  Jim  and  Anna  there. 

"  How  wonderful  life  is,"  said  Anna,  lowly. 
"But  it  begins  again  with  you  for  friend." 
In  the  dim  lamplight  Jimmy  thought  her  holy, 
A  lovely  fragile  thing  for  him  to  tend, 
Grace  beyond  measure,  beauty  without  end. 
"Anna,"  he  said;  "Good-night.    This  is  the  door. 
I  never  knew  what  people  meant  before," 

"Good-night,  my  friend.    Good-bye."    "But  oh,  my  sweet, 

The  night's  quite  early  yet,  don't  say  good-bye, 

Come  just  another  short  turn  down  the  street, 

The  whole  life's  bubbling  up  for  you  and  I. 

Somehow  I  feel  to-morrow  we  may  die. 

Come  just  as  far  as  to  the  blacksmith's  light." 

But  "No,"  said  Anna;  "not  to-night.    Good-night." 

All  the  tides  triumph  when  the  white  moon  fills 
Down  in  the  race  the  toppling  waters  shout, 
The  breakers  shake  the  bases  of  the  hills, 
There  is  a  thundering  where  the  streams  go  out, 
And  the  wise  shipman  puts  his  ship  about 
Seeing  the  gathering  of  those  waters  wan, 
But  what  when  love  makes  high  tide  in  a  man? 

[i94l 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

Jimmy  walked  home  with  all  his  mind  on  fire, 
One  lovely  face  forever  set  in  flame. 
He  shivered  as  he  went,  like  tautened  wire, 
Surge  after  surge  of  shuddering  in  him  came 
And  then  swept  out  repeating  one  sweet  name 
"Anna,  oh  Anna,"  to  the  evening  star. 
Anna  was  sipping  whiskey  in  the  bar. 

So  back  to  home  and  mother  Jimmy  wandered, 
Thinking  of  Plaister's  End  and  Anna's  lips. 
He  ate  no  supper  worth  the  name,  but  pondered 
On  Plaister's  End  hedge,  scarlet  with  ripe  hips, 
And  of  the  lovely  moon  there  in  eclipse, 
And  how  she  must  be  shining  in  the  house 
Behind  the  hedge  of  those  old  dog-rose  boughs. 

Old  mother  cleared  away.    The  clock  struck  eight. 
"Why,  boy,  you've  left  your  bacon,  lawks  a  me, 
So  that's  what  comes  of  having  tea  so  late, 
Another  time  you'll  go  without  your  tea. 
Your  father  liked  his  cup,  too,  didn't  he, 
Always  '  another  cup'  he  used  to  say, 
He  never  went  without  on  any  day. 

How  nice  the  lady  was  and  how  she  talked, 
I've  never  had  a  nicer  fair,  not  ever." 
"She  said  she'd  like  to  see  us  if  we  walked 
To  Plaister's  End,  beyond  by  Watersever. 
Nice-looking  woman,  too,  and  that,  and  clever; 
We  might  go  round  one  evening,  p'raps,  we  two; 
Or  I  might  go,  if  it's  too  far  for  you." 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

"No,"  said  the  mother,  "we're  not  folk  for  that; 
Meet  at  the  fair  and  that,  and  there  an  end. 
Rake  out  the  fire  and  put  out  the  cat, 
These  fairs  are  sinful,  tempting  folk  to  spend. 
Of  course  she  spoke  polite  and  like  a  friend; 
Of  course  she  had  to  do,  and  so  I  let  her, 
But  now  it's  done  and  past,  so  I  forget  her." 

"I  don't  see  why  forget  her.    Why  forget  her? 

She  treat  us  kind.    She  weren't  like  everyone. 

I  never  saw  a  woman  I  liked  better, 

And  he's  not  easy  pleased,  my  father's  son. 

So  I'll  go  round  some  night  when  work  is  done." 

"Now,  Jim,  my  dear,  trust  mother,  there's  a  dear." 

"Well,  so  I  do,  but  sometimes  you're  so  queer." 

She  blinked  at  him  out  of  her  withered  eyes 
Below  her  lashless  eyelids  red  and  bleared. 
Her  months  of  sacrifice  had  won  the  prize, 
Her  Jim  had  come  to  what  she  always  feared. 
And  yet  she  doubted,  so  she  shpok  and  peered 
And  begged  her  God  not  let  a  woman  take 
The  lovely  son  whom  she  had  starved  to  make. 

Doubting,  she  stood  the  dishes  in  the  rack, 
"We'll  ask  her  in  some  evening,  then,"  she  said, 
"How  nice  her  hair  looked  in  the  bit  of  black." 
And  still  she  peered  from  eyes  all  dim  and  red 
To  note  at  once  if  Jimmy  drooped  his  head, 
Or  if  his  ears  blushed  when  he  heard  her  praised, 
And  Jimmy  blushed  and  hung  his  head  and  gazed. 
[196] 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

"This  is  the  end,"  she  thought.    "This  is  the  end. 
I'll  have  to  sew  again  for  Mr.  Jones, 
Do  hems  when  I  can  hardly  see  to  mend, 
And  have  the  old  ache  in  my  marrow  bones. 
And  when  his  wife's  in  child-bed,  when  she  groans, 
She'll  send  for  me  until  the  pains  have  ceased, 
And  give  me  leavings  at  the  christening  feast. 

And  sit  aslant  to  eye  me  as  I  eat, 

'You're  only  wanted  here,  ma'am,  for  to-day, 

Just  for  the  christ'ning  party,  for  the  treat, 

Don't  ever  think  I  mean  to  let  you  stay; 

Two's  company,  three's  none,  that's  what  I  say/ 

Life  can  be  bitter  to  the  very  bone 

When  one  is  poor,  and  woman,  and  alone," 

"Jimmy,"  she  said,  still  doubting.     "Come,  my  dear, 
Let's  have  our  'Binger,'  'fore  we  go  to  bed." 
And  then  "The  parson's  dog,"  she  cackled  clear, 
"Lep  over  stile,"  she  sang,  nodding  her  head. 
"His  name  was  little  Binger."    "Jim,"  she  said, 
"Binger,  now,  chorus"  .  .  .  Jimmy  kicked  the  hob, 
The  sacrament  of  song  died  in  a  sob. 

Jimmy  went  out  into  the  night  to  think 
Under  the  moon  so  steady  in  the  blue. 
The  woman's  beauty  ran  in  him  like  drink, 
The  fear  that  men  had  loved  her  burnt  him  through; 
The  fear  that  even  then  another  knew 
All  the  deep  mystery  which  women  make       / 
To  hide  the  inner  nothing  made  him  shake. 
[i97l 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

"Anna,  I  love  you,  and  I  always  shall." 

He  looked  towards  Plaister's  End  beyond  Cot  Hills. 

A  white  star  glimmered  in  the  long  canal, 

A  droning  from  the  music  came  in  thrills. 

Love  is  a  flame  to  burn  out  human  wills, 

Love  is  a  flame  to  set  the  will  on  fire, 

Love  is  a  flame  to  cheat  men  into  mire. 

One  of  the  three,  we  make  Love  what  we  choose. 
But  Jimmy  did  not  know,  he  only  thought 
That  Anna  was  too  beautiful  to  lose, 
That  she  was  all  the  world  and  he  was  naught, 
That  it  was  sweet,  though  bitter,  to  be  caught. 
"Anna,  I  love  you."    Underneath  the  moon, 
"I  shall  go  mad  unless  I  see  you  soon." 

The  fair's  lights  threw  aloft  a  misty  glow. 

The  organ  whangs,  the  giddy  horses  reel, 

The  rifles  cease,  the  folk  begin  to  go, 

The  hands  unclamp  the  swing  boats  from  the  wheel, 

There  is  a  smell  of  trodden  orange  peel; 

The  organ  drones  and  dies,  the  horses  stop, 

And  then  the  tent  collapses  from  the  top. 

The  fair  is  over,  let  the  people  troop, 
The  drunkards  stagger  homewards  down  the  gutters, 
The  showmen  heave  in  an  excited  group, 
The  poles  tilt  slowly  down,  the  canvas  flutters, 
The  mauls  knock  out  the  pins,  the  last  flare  sputters. 
"Lower  away."     "Go  easy."     "Lower,  lower." 
"You've  dang  near  knock  my  skull  in.    Loose  it  slower." 

[198] 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

"Back  in  the  horses."    "Are  the  swing  boats  loaded?" 
"All  right  to  start."    "Bill,  where's  the  cushion  gone? 
The  red  one  for  the  Queen?"    "I  think  I  stowed  it." 
"You  think,  you  think.     Lord,  where's  that  cushion,  John?" 
"It's  in  that  ditty  box  you're  sitting  on, 
What  more  d'you  want?"    A  concertina  plays 
Far  off  as  wandering  lovers  go  their  ways. 

Up  the  dim  Bye  Street  to  the  market-place 
The  dead  bones  of  the  fair  are  borne  in  carts, 
Horses  and  swing  boats  at  a  funeral  pace 
After  triumphant  hours  quickening  hearts; 
A  policeman  eyes  each  waggon  as  it  starts, 
The  drowsy  showmen  stumble  half  asleep, 
One  of  them  cat  calls,  having  drunken  deep. 

So  out,  over  the  pass,  into  the  plain, 

And  the  dawn  finds  them  filling  empty  cans 

In  some  sweet-smelling  dusty  country  lane, 

Where  a  brook  chatters  over  rusty  pans. 

The  iron  chimneys  of  the  caravans 

Smoke  as  they  go.    And  now  the  fair  has  gone 

To  find  a  new  pitch  somewhere  further  on. 

But  as  the  fair  moved  out  two  lovers  came, 
Ernie  and  Bessie  loitering  out  together; 
Bessie  with  wild  eyes,  hungry  as  a  flame, 
Ern  like  a  stallion  tugging  at  a  tether. 
It  was  calm  moonlight,  and  October  weather, 
So  still,  so  lovely,  as  they  topped  the  ridge. 
They  brushed  by  Jimmy  standing  on  the  bridge. 

[i99l 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

And,  as  they  passed,  they  gravely  eyed  each  other, 
And  the  blood  burned  in  each  heart  beating  there; 
And  out  into  the  Bye  Street  tottered  mother, 
Without  her  shawl,  in  the  October  air. 
"Jimmy,"  she  cried,  "Jimmy."    And  Bessie's  hair 
Drooped  on  the  instant  over  Ernie's  face, 
And  the  two  lovers  clung  in  an  embrace. 

"O,  Ern."    "My  own,  my  Bessie."    As  they  kissed 

Jimmy  was  envious  of  the  thing  unknown. 

So  this  was  Love,  the  something  he  had  missed, 

Woman  and  man  athirst,  aflame,  alone. 

Envy  went  knocking  at  his  marrow-bone, 

And  Anna's  face  swam  up  so  dim,  so  fair, 

Shining  and  sweet,  with  poppies  in  her  hair. 

PART   III 

After  the  fair,  the  gang  began  again. 

Tipping  the  trolleys  down  the  banks  of  earth. 

The  truck  of  stone  clanks  on  the  endless  chain, 

A  clever  pony  guides  it  to  its  berth. 

"Let  go."    It  tips,  the  navvies  shout  for  mirth 

To  see  the  pony  step  aside,  so  wise, 

But  Jimmy  sighed,  thinking  of  Anna's  eyes. 

And  when  he  stopped  his  shovelling  he  looked 
Over  the  junipers  towards  Plaister  way, 
The  beauty  of  his  darling  had  him  hooked, 
He  had  no  heart  for  wrastling  with  the  clay. 
"O  Lord  Almighty,  I  must  get  away; 
0  Lord,  I  must.    I  must  just  see  my  flower. 
Why,  I  could  run  there  in  the  dinner  hour." 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

The  whistle  on  the  pilot  engine  blew, 

The  men  knocked  off,  and  Jimmy  slipped  aside 

Over  the  fence,  over  the  bridge,  and  through, 

And  then  ahead  along  the  water-side, 

Under  the  red-brick  rail-bridge,  arching  wide, 

Over  the  hedge,  across  the  fields,  and  on; 

The  foreman  asked:  "Where's  Jimmy  Gurney  gone?" 

It  is  a  mile  and  more  to  Plaister's  End, 
But  Jimmy  ran  the  short  way  by  the  stream, 
And  there  was  Anna's  cottage  at  the  bend, 
With  blue  smoke  on  the  chimney,  faint  as  steam. 
"God,  she's  at  home,"  and  up  his  heart  a  gleam 
Leapt  like  a  rocket  on  November  nights, 
And  shattered  slowly  in  a  burst  of  lights. 

Anna  was  singing  at  her  kitchen  fire, 

She  was  surprised,  and  not  well  pleased  to  see 

A  sweating  navvy,  red  with  heat  and  mire, 

Come  to  her  door,  whoever  he  might  be. 

But  when  she  saw  that  it  was  Jimmy,  she 

Smiled  at  his  eyes  upon  her,  full  of  pain, 

And  thought,  "But,  still,  he  mustn't  come  again. 

People  will  talk;  boys  are  such  crazy  things; 
But  he's  a  dear  boy  though  he  is  so  green." 
So,  hurriedly,  she  slipped  her  apron  strings, 
And  dabbed  her  hair,  and  wiped  her  fingers  clean, 
And  came  to  greet  him  languid  as  a  queen, 
Looking  as  sweet,  as  fair,  as  pure,  as  sad, 
As  when  she  drove  her  loving  husband  mad. 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

"Poor  boy,"  she  said,  "Poor  boy,  how  hot  you  are." 
She  laid  a  cool  hand  to  his  sweating  face. 
"How  kind  to  come.    Have  you  been  running  far? 
I'm  just  going  out;  come  up  the  road  a  pace. 

0  dear,  these  hens;  they're  all  about  the  place." 
So  Jimmy  shooed  the  hens  at  her  command, 
And  got  outside  the  gate  as  she  had  planned. 

"Anna,  my  dear,  I  love  you;  love  you,  true; 

1  had  to  come — I  don't  know — I  can't  rest — 
I  lay  awake  all  night,  thinking  of  you. 
Many  must  love  you,  but  I  love  you  best." 
"Many  have  loved  me,  yes,  dear,"  she  confessed, 
She  smiled  upon  him  with  a  tender  pride, 

"But  my  love  ended  when  my  husband  died. 

"Still,  we'll  be  friends,  dear  friends,  dear,  tender  friends; 
Love  with  its  fever's  at  an  end  for  me. 
Be  by  me  gently  now  the  fever  ends, 
Life  is  a  lovelier  thing  than  lovers  see, 
I'd  like  to  trust  a  man,  Jimmy,"  said  she, 

"May  I  trust  you?"    "Oh,  Anna  dear,  my  dear " 

"Don't  come  so  close,"  she  said,  "with  people  near. 

Dear,  don't  be  vexed;  it's  very  sweet  to  find 

One  who  will  understand;  but  life  is  life, 

And  those  who  do  not  know  are  so  unkind. 

But  you'll  be  by  me,  Jimmy,  in  the  strife, 

I  love  you  though  I  cannot  be  your  wife; 

And  now  be  off,  before  the  whistle  goes, 

Or  else  you'll  lose  your  quarter,  goodness  knows." 

[202] 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

"When  can  I  see  you,  Anna?    Tell  me,  dear. 
To-night?    To-morrow?    Shall  I  come  to-night?" 
"Jimmy,  my  friend,  I  cannot  have  you  here; 
But  when  I  come  to  town  perhaps  we  might. 
Dear,  you  must  go;  no  kissing;  you  can  write, 
And  I'll  arrange  a  meeting  when  I  learn 
What  friends  are  doing"  (meaning  Shepherd  Ern). 

"Good-bye,  my  own."    "Dear  Jim,  you  understand. 

If  we  were  only  free,  dear,  free  to  meet, 

Dear,  I  would  take  you  by  your  big,  strong  hand 

And  kiss  your  dear  boy  eyes  so  blue  and  sweet; 

But  my  dead  husband  lies  under  the  sheet, 

Dead  in  my  heart,  dear,  lovely,  lonely  one, 

So,  Jim,  my  dear,  my  loving  days  are  done. 

But  though  my  heart  is  buried  in  his  grave 
Something  might  be — friendship  and  utter  trust — 
And  you,  my  dear  starved  little  Jim  shall  have 
Flowers  of  friendship  from  my  dead  heart's  dust; 
Life  would  be  sweet  if  men  would  never  lust. 
Why  do  you,  Jimmy?    Tell  me  sometime,  dear, 
Why  men  are  always  what  we  women  fear. 

Not  now.    Good-bye;  we  understand,  we  two, 
And  life,  oh,  Jim,  how  glorious  life  is; 
This  sunshine  in  my  heart  is  due  to  you; 
I  was  so  sad,  and  life  has  given  this. 
I  think  'I  wish  I  had  something  of  his,' 
Do  give  me  something,  will  you  be  so  kind? 
Something  to  keep  you  always  in  my  mind." 
[203] 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

"I  will,"  he  said.    "Now  go,  or  you'll  be  late." 
He  broke  from  her  and  ran,  and  never  dreamt 
That  as  she  stood  to  watch  him  from  the  gate 
Her  heart  was  half  amusement,  half  contempt, 
Comparing  Jim  the  squab,  red  and  unkempt, 
In  sweaty  corduroys,  with  Shepherd  Ern. 
She  blew  him  kisses  till  he  passed  the  turn. 

The  whistle  blew  before  he  reached  the  line; 
The  foreman  asked  him  what  the  hell  he  meant, 
Whether  a  duke  had  asked  him  out  to  dine, 
Or  if  he  thought  the  bag  would  pay  his  rent  ? 
And  Jim  was  fined  before  the  foreman  went. 
But  still  his  spirit  glowed  from  Anna's  words, 
Cooed  in  the  voice  so  like  a  singing  bird's. 

"O  Anna,  darling,  you  shall  have  a  present; 

I'd  give  you  golden  gems  if  I  were  rich, 

And  everything  that's  sweet  and  all  that's  pleasant." 

He  dropped  his  pick  as  though  he  had  a  stitch, 

And  stared  tow'rds  Plaister's  End,  past  Bushe's  Pitch. 

O  beauty,  what  I  have  to  give  I'll  give, 

All  mine  is  yours,  beloved,  while  I  live." 

All  through  the  afternoon  his  pick  was  slacking, 
His  eyes  were  always  turning  west  and  south, 
The  foreman  was  inclined  to  send  him  packing, 
But  put  it  down  to  after  fair-day  drouth; 
He  looked  at  Jimmy  with  an  ugly  mouth, 
And  Jimmy  slacked,  and  muttered  in  a  moan, 
"My  love,  my  beautiful,  my  very  own." 
[204] 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

So  she  had  loved.    Another  man  had  had  her; 

She  had  been  his  with  passion  in  the  night; 

An  agony  of  envy  made  him  sadder, 

Yet  stabbed  a  pang  of  bitter-sweet  delight — 

O  he  would  keep  his  image  of  her  white. 

The  foreman  cursed,  stepped  up,  and  asked  him  flat 

What  kind  of  gum  tree  he  was  gaping  at. 

It  was  Jim's  custom,  when  the  pay  day  came, 
To  take  his  weekly  five  and  twenty  shilling 
Back  in  the  little  packet  to  his  dame: 
Not  taking  out  a  farthing  for  a  filling, 
Nor  twopence  for  a  pot,  for  he  was  willing 
That  she  should  have  it  all  to  save  or  spend. 
But  love  makes  many  lovely  customs  end. 

Next  pay  day  came,  and  Jimmy  took  the  money, 

But  not  to  mother,  for  he  meant  to  buy 

A  thirteen  shilling  locket  for  his  honey, 

Whatever  bellies  hungered  and  went  dry, 

A  silver  heart-shape  with  a  ruby  eye 

He  bought  the  thing  and  paid  the  shopman's  price, 

And  hurried  off  to  make  the  sacrifice. 

"Is  it  for  me?    You  dear,  dear  generous  boy. 
How  sweet  of  you.    I'll  wear  it  in  my  dress. 
When  you're  beside  me  life  is  such  a  joy, 
You  bring  the  sun  to  solitariness." 
She  brushed  his  jacket  with  a  light  caress, 
His  arms  went  round  her  fast,  she  yielded  meek; 
He  had  the  happiness  to  kiss  her  cheek. 
[205] 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

"My  dear,  my  dear."    "My  very  dear,  my  Jim, 

How  very  kind  my  Jimmy  is  to  me; 

I  ache  to  think  that  some  are  harsh  to  him; 

Not  like  my  Jimmy,  beautiful  and  free. 

My  darling  boy,  how  lovely  it  would  be 

If  all  would  trust  as  we  two  trust  each  other." 

And  Jimmy's  heart  grew  hard  against  his  mother. 

She,  poor  old  soul,  was  waiting  in  the  gloom 
For  Jimmy's  pay,  that  she  could  do  the  shopping. 
The  clock  ticked  out  a  solemn  tale  of  doom; 
Clogs  on  the  bricks  outside  went  clippa-clopping, 
The  owls  were  coming  out  and  dew  was  dropping. 
The  bacon  burnt,  and  Jimmy  not  yet  home. 
The  clock  was  ticking  dooms  out  like  a  gnome. 

"What  can  have  kept  him  that  he  doesn't  come? 

O  God,  they'd  tell  me  if  he'd  come  to  hurt." 

The  unknown,  unseen  evil  struck  her  numb, 

She  saw  his  body  bloody  in  the  dirt, 

She  saw  the  life  blood  pumping  through  the  shirt, 

She  saw  him  tipsy  in  the  navvies'  booth, 

She  saw  all  forms  of  evil  but  the  truth. 

At  last  she  hurried  up  the  line  to  ask 
If  Jim  were  hurt  or  why  he  wasn't  back. 
She  found  the  watchman  wearing  through  his  task; 
Over  the  fire  basket  in  his  shack; 
Behind,  the  new  embankment  rose  up  black. 
"Gurney?"  he  said.    He'd  got  to  see  a  friend." 
"Where?"    "I  dunno.    I  think  out  Plaister's  End." 
[206] 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

Thanking  the  man,  she  tottered  down  the  hill, 
The  long-feared  fang  had  bitten  to  the  bone. 
The  brook  beside  her  talked  as  water  will 
That  it  was  lonely  singing  all  alone, 
The  night  was  lonely  with  the  water's  tone, 
And  she  was  lonely  to  the  very  marrow. 
Love  puts  such  bitter  poison  on  Fate's  arrow. 

She  went  the  long  way  to  them  by  the  mills, 

She  told  herself  that  she  must  find  her  son. 

The  night  was  ominous  of  many  ills; 

The  soughing  larch-clump  almost  made  her  run, 

Her  boots  hurt  (she  had  got  a  stone  in  one) 

And  bitter  beaks  were  tearing  at  her  liver 

That  her  boy's  heart  was  turned  from  her  forever. 

She  kept  the  lane,  past  Spindle's  past  the  Callows', 
Her  lips  still  muttering  prayers  against  the  worst, 
And  there  were  people  coming  from  the  sallows, 
Along  the  wild  duck  patch  by  Beggar's  Hurst. 
Being  in  moonlight  mother  saw  them  first, 
She  saw  them  moving  in  the  moonlight  dim, 
A  woman  with  a  sweet  voice  saying  "Jim/* 

Trembling  she  grovelled  down  into  the  ditch, 
They  wandered  past  her  pressing  side  to  side. 
"O  Anna,  my  belov'd,  if  I  were  rich." 
It  was  her  son,  and  Anna's  voice  replied, 
"Dear  boy,  dear  beauty  boy,  my  love  and  pride." 
And  he:  "It's  but  a  silver  thing,  but  I 
Will  earn  you  better  lockets  by  and  bye." 
[207] 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

"Dear  boy,  you  mustn't."    "But  I  mean  to  do." 

"What  was  that  funny  sort  of  noise  I  heard?" 

"Where?" 

"In  the  hedge;  a  sort  of  sob  or  coo. 

Listen.    It's  gone."    "It  may  have  been  a  bird." 

Jim  tossed  a  stone  but  mother  never  stirred. 

She  hugged  the  hedgerow,  choking  down  her  pain, 

While  the  hot  tears  were  blinding  in  her  brain. 

The  two  passed  on,  the  withered  woman  rose, 
For  many  minutes  she  could  only  shake, 
Staring  ahead  with  trembling  little  "Oh's," 
The  noise  a  very  frightened  child  might  make. 
"O  God,  dear  God,  don't  let  the  woman  take 
My  little  son,  God,  not  my  little  Jim. 
O  God,  I'll  have  to  starve  if  I  lose  him." 

So  back  she  trembled,  nodding  with  her  head, 
Laughing  and  trembling  in  the  bursts  of  tears, 
Her  ditch-filled  boots  both  squelching  in  the  tread, 
Her  shopping-bonnet  sagging  to  her  ears, 
Her  heart  too  dumb  with  brokenness  for  fears. 
The  nightmare  whickering  with  the  laugh  of  death 
Could  not  have  added  terror  to  her  breath. 

She  reached  the  house,  and:  "I'm  all  right,"  said  she, 
"I'll  just  take  off  my  things;  but  I'm  all  right, 
I'd  be  all  right  with  just  a  cup  of  tea, 
If  I  could  only  get  this  grate  to  light, 
The  paper's  damp  and  Jimmy's  late  to-night; 
'Belov'd,  if  I  was  rich,'  was  what  he  said, 
Oh,  Jim,  I  wish  that  God  would  kill  me  dead." 
[208] 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

While  she  was  blinking  at  the  unlit  grate, 
Scratching  the  moistened  match-heads  off  the  wood, 
She  heard  Jim  coming,  so  she  reached  his  plate, 
And  forked  the  over-frizzled  scraps  of  food. 
"You're  late,"  she  said,  "and  this  yer  isn't  good, 
Whatever  makes  you  come  in  late  like  this?" 
"I've  been  to  Plaister's  End,  that's  how  it  is." 

M.  You've  been  to  Plaister's  End?" 

/.  "Yes." 

M.  I've  been  staying 
For  money  for  the  shopping  ever  so. 
Down  here  we  can't  get  victuals  without  paying, 
There's  no  trust  down  the  Bye  Street,  as  you  know, 
And  now  it's  dark  and  it's  too  late  to  go. 
You've  been  to  Plaister's  End.    What  took  you  there?" 

/.  "The  lady  who  was  with  us  at  the  fair." 

M.  "The  lady,  eh?    The  lady?" 
/.  "Yes,  the  lady." 
M.  "You've  been  to  see  her?" 
/.  "Yes." 

Af.  "What  happened  then?" 

/.  "I  saw  her." 

M.  "Yes.    And  what  filth  did  she  trade  ye? 
Or  d'you  expect  your  locket  back  agen  ? 
I  know  the  rotten  ways  of  whores  with  men. 
What  did  it  cost  ye?" 

/.  "What  did  what  cost?" 

M.  "It." 

Your  devil's  penny  for  the  devil's  bit." 
[209] 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

/.  "I  don't  know  what  you  mean." 

M.  "Jimmy,  my  own. 

Don't  lie  to  mother,  boy,  for  mother  knows. 
I  know  you  and  that  lady  to  the  bone, 
And  she's  a  whore,  that  thing  you  call  a  rose, 
A  whore  who  takes  whatever  male  thing  goes; 
A  harlot  with  the  devil's  skill  to  tell 
The  special  key  of  each  man's  door  to  hell." 

/.  "She's  not.    She's  nothing  of  the  kind,  I  tell  'ee." 
M.  "You  can't  tell  women  like  a  woman  can; 

A  beggar  tells  a  lie  to  fill  his  belly, 

A  strumpet  tells  a  lie  to  win  a  man, 

Women  were  liars  since  the  world  began; 

And  she's  a  liar,  branded  in  the  eyes, 

A  rotten  liar,  who  inspires  lies." 

/.  "I  say  she's  not." 

M.     "No,  don't  'ee,  Jim,  my  dearie, 
You've  seen  her  often  in  the  last  few  days, 
She's  given  a  love  as  makes  you  come  in  weary 
To  lie  to  me  before  going  out  to  laze. 
She's  tempted  you  into  the  devil's  ways, 
She's  robbing  you,  full  fist,  of  what  you  earn, 
In  God's  Name,  what's  she  giving  in  return?" 

/.  "Her  faith,  my  dear,  and  that's  enough  for  me." 
M.  "Her  faith.    Her  faith.    Oh,  Jimmy,  listen,  dear; 
Love  doesn't  ask  for  faith,  my  son,  not  he; 
He  asks  for  life  throughout  the  live-long  year, 
And  life's  a  test  for  any  plough  to  ere. 
Life  tests  a  plough  in  meadows  made  of  stones, 
Love  takes  a  toll  of  spirit,  mind  and  bones. 
[210] 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

I  know  a  woman's  portion  when  she  loves, 
It's  hers  to  give,  my  darling,  not  to  take; 
It  isn't  lockets,  dear,  nor  pairs  of  gloves, 
It  isn't  marriage  bells  nor  wedding  cake, 
It's  up  and  cook,  although  the  belly  ache; 
And  bear  the  child,  and  up  and  work  again, 
And  count  a  sick  man's  grumble  worth  the  pain. 

Will  she  do  this,  and  fifty  times  as  much?" 

/.  "No.    I  don't  ask  her." 

M.  "No.    I  warrant,  no. 
She's  one  to  get  a  young  fool  in  her  clutch, 
And  you're  a  fool  to  let  her  trap  you  so. 
She  love  you?    She?    O  Jimmy,  let  her  go; 
I  was  so  happy,  dear,  before  she  came, 
And  now  I'm  going  to  the  grave  in  shame. 

I  bore  you,  Jimmy,  in  this  very  room. 

For  fifteen  years  I  got  you  all  you  had, 

You  were  my  little  son,  made  in  my  womb, 

Left  all  to  me,  for  God  had  took  your  dad, 

You  were  a  good  son,  doing  all  I  bade, 

Until  this  strumpet  came  from  God  knows  where, 

And  now  you  lie,  and  I  am  in  despair. 

Jimmy,  I  won't  say  more.    I  know  you  think 

That  I  don't  know,  being  just  a  withered  old, 

With  chaps  all  fallen  in  and  eyes  that  blink, 

And  hands  that  tremble  so  they  cannot  hold. 

A  bag  of  bones  to  put  in  churchyard  mould, 

A  red-eyed  hag  beside  your  evening  star." 

And  Jimmy  gulped,  and  thought,    "By  God,  you  are.' 

[211] 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

"Well,  if  I  am,  my  dear,  I  don't  pretend. 
I  got  my  eyes  red,  Jimmy,  making  you. 
My  dear,  before  our  love  time's  at  an  end 
Think  just  a  minute  what  it  is  you  do. 
If  this  were  right,  my  dear,  you'd  tell  me  true; 
You  don't,  and  so  it's  wrong;  you  lie;  and  she 
Lies  too,  or  else  you  wouldn't  lie  to  me. 

Women  and  men  have  only  got  one  way 
And  that  way's  marriage;  other  ways  are  lust. 
If  you  must  marry  this  one,  then  you  may 
If  you'll  not  drop  her." 

J.  "No." 

M.  "I  say  you  must. 

Or  bring  my  hairs  with  sorrow  to  the  dust. 
Marry  your  whore,  you'll  pay,  and  there  an  end. 
My  God,  you  shall  not  have  a  whore  for  friend. 

By  God,  you  shall  not,  not  while  I'm  alive. 
Never,  so  help  me  God,  shall  that  thing  be. 
If  she's  a  woman  fit  to  touch  she'll  wive, 
If  not  she's  whore,  and  she  shall  deal  with  me. 
And  may  God's  blessed  mercy  help  us  see 
And  may  He  make  my  Jimmy  count  the  cost, 
My  little  boy  who's  lost,  as  I  am  lost." 

People  in  love  cannot  be  won  by  kindness, 
And  opposition  makes  them  feel  like  martyrs. 
When  folk  are  crazy  with  drunken  blindness 
It's  best  to  flog  them  with  each  other's  garters, 
And  have  the  flogging  done  by  Shropshire  carters, 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

Born  under  Ercall  where  the  white  stones  lie; 
Ercall  that  smells  of  honey  in  July. 

Jimmy  said  nothing  in  reply,  but  thought 

That  mother  was  an  old,  hard,  jealous  thing. 

"I'll  love  my  girl  through  good  and  ill  report, 

I  shall  be  true  whatever  grief  it  bring." 

And  in  his  heart  he  heard  the  death-bell  ring 

For  mother's  death,  and  thought  what  it  would  be 

To  bury  her  in  churchyard  and  be  free. 

He  saw  the  narrow  grave  under  the  wall, 

Home  without  mother  nagging  at  his  dear, 

And  Anna  there  with  him  at  evenfall, 

Bidding  him  dry  his  eyes  and  be  of  cheer. 

"The  death  that  took  poor  mother  brings  me  near, 

Nearer  than  we  have  ever  been  before, 

Near  as  the  dead  one  came,  but  dearer,  more." 

"Good-night,  my  son,"  said  mother.    "Night,"  he  said. 

He  dabbed  her  brow  wi's  lips  and  blew  the  light, 

She  lay  quite  silent  crying  on  the  bed, 

Stirring  no  limb,  but  crying  through  the  night, 

He  slept,  convinced  that  he  was  Anna's  knight. 

And  when  he  went  to  work  he  left  behind 

Money  for  mother  crying  herself  blind. 

After  that  night  he  came  to  Anna's  call, 
He  was  a  fly  in  Anna's  subtle  weavings, 
Mother  had  no  more  share  in  him  at  all; 
All  that  the  mother  had  was  Anna's  leavings. 
There  were  more  lies,  more  lockets,  more  deceivings, 

[213] 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

Taunts  from  the  proud  old  woman,  lies  from  him, 
And  Anna's  coo  of  "  Cruel.    Leave  her,  Jim." 

Also  the  foreman  spoke:  "You  make  me  sick, 
You    come-day-go-day-God-send-plenty-beer. 
You  put  less  mizzle  on  your  bit  of  Dick, 
Or  get  your  time,  I'll  have  no  slackers  here, 
I've  had  my  eye  on  you  too  long,  my  dear." 
And  Jimmy  pondered  while  the  man  attacked, 
"I'd  see  her  all  day  long  if  I  were  sacked." 

And  trembling  mother  thought,  "I'll  go  to  see'r. 
She'd  give  me  back  my  boy  if  she  were  told 
Just  what  he  is  to  me,  my  pretty  dear: 
She  wouldn't  leave  me  starving  in  the  cold, 
Like  what  I  am."    But  she  was  weak  and  old. 
She  thought,  "But  if  I  ast  her,  I'm  afraid 
He'd  hate  me  ever  after,"  so  she  stayed. 

PART  IV 

Bessie,  the  gipsy,  got  with  child  by  Ern, 

She  joined  her  tribe  again  at  Shepherd's  Meen, 

In  that  old  quarry  overgrown  with  fern, 

Where  goats  are  tethered  on  the  patch  of  green. 

There  she  reflected  on  the  fool  she'd  been, 

And  plaited  kipes  and  waited  for  the  bastard, 

And  thought  that  love  was  glorious  while  it  lasted. 

And  Ern  the  moody  man  went  moody  home, 
To  that  most  gentle  girl  from  Ercall  Hill, 
And  bade  her  take  a  heed  now  he  had  come, 
Or  else,  by  cripes,  he'd  put  her  through  the  mill. 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

He  didn't  want  her  love,  he'd  had  his  fill, 
Thank  you,  of  her,  the  bread  and  butter  sack. 
And  Anna  heard  that  Shepherd  Ern  was  back. 

"Back.    And  I'll  have  him  back  to  me,"  she  muttered, 

"This  lovesick  boy  of  twenty,  green  as  grass, 

Has  made  me  wonder  if  my  brains  are  buttered, 

He,  and  his  lockets,  and  his  love,  the  ass. 

I  don't  know  why  he  comes.    Alas!  alas! 

God  knows  I  want  no  love;  but  every  sun 

I  bolt  my  doors  on  some  poor  loving  one. 

It  breaks  my  heart  to  turn  them  out  of  doors, 
I  hear  them  crying  to  me  in  the  rain; 
One,  with  a  white  face,  curses,  one  implores, 
"Anna,  for  God's  sake,  let  me  in  again, 
Anna,  belov'd,  I  cannot  bear  the  pain." 
Like  hoovey  sheep  bleating  outside  a  fold, 
"Anna,  belov'd,  I'm  in  the  wind  and  cold." 

I  want  no  men.    I'm  weary  to  the  soul 
Of  men  like  moths  about  a  candle  flame, 
Of  men  like  flies  about  a  sugar  bowl, 
Acting  alike,  and  all  wanting  the  same, 
My  dreamed-of  swirl  of  passion  never  came, 
No  man  has  given  me  the  love  I  dreamed, 
But  in  the  best  of  each  one  something  gleamed. 

If  my  dear  darling  were  alive,  but  he.    .    . 
He  was  the  same;  he  didn't  understand. 
The  eyes  of  that  dead  child  are  haunting  me, 
I  only  turned  the  blanket  with  my  hand. 
It  didn't  hurt,  he  died  as  I  had  planned. 
[215] 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

A  little  skinny  creature,  weak  and  red; 
It  looked  so  peaceful  after  it  was  dead. 

I  have  been  all  alone,  in  spite  of  all. 
Never  a  light  to  help  me  place  my  feet: 
I  have  had  many  a  pain  and  many  a  fall. 
Life's  a  long  headache  in  a  noisy  street, 
Love  at  the  budding  looks  so  very  sweet, 
Men  put  such  bright  disguises  on  their  lust, 
And  then  it  all  goes  crumble  into  dust. 

Jimmy  the  same,  dear,  lovely  Jimmy,  too, 
He  goes  the  self-same  way  the  others  went: 
I  shall  bring  sorrow  to  those  eyes  of  blue. 
He  asks  the  love  I'm  sure  I  never  meant. 
Am  I  to  blame?    And  all  his  money  spent! 
Men  make  this  shutting  doors  such  cruel  pain. 
O,  Ern,  I  want  you  in  my  life  again." 

On  Sunday  afternoons  the  lovers  walk 
Arm  within  arm,  dressed  in  their  Sunday  best, 
The  man  with  the  blue  necktie  sucks  a  stalk, 
The  woman  answers  when  she  is  addressed. 
On  quiet  country  stiles  they  sit  to  rest, 
And  after  fifty  years  of  wear  and  tear 
They  think  how  beautiful  their  courtships  were. 

Jimmy  and  Anna  met  to  walk  together 
The  Sunday  after  Shepherd  Ern  returned; 
And  Anna's  hat  was  lovely  with  a  feather 
Bought  and  dyed  blue  with  money  Jimmy  earned. 
They  walked  towards  Callows  Farm,  and  Anna  yearned: 

[216] 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

"Dear  boy,"  she  said,  "This  road  is  dull  to-day, 
Suppose  we  turn  and  walk  the  other  way." 

They  turned,  she  sighed.    "What  makes  you  sigh?"  he  asked. 

"Thinking,"  she  said,  "thinking  and  grieving,  too. 

Perhaps  some  wicked  woman  will  come  masked 

Into  your  life,  my  dear,  to  ruin  you. 

And  trusting  every  woman  as  you  do 

It  might  mean  death  to  love  and  be  deceived; 

You'd  take  it  hard,  I  thought,  and  so  I  grieved." 

"Dear  one,  dear  Anna."    "O  my  lovely  boy, 

Life  is  all  golden  to  the  fingers  tips. 

What  will  be  must  be:  but  to-day's  a  joy. 

Reach  me  that  lovely  branch  of  scarlet  hips." 

He  reached  and  gave;  she  put  it  to  her  lips. 

"And  here,"  she  said,  "we  come  to  Plaister  Turns," 

And  then  she  chose  the  road  to  Shepherd  Ern's. 

As  the  deft  angler,  when  the  fishes  rise, 
Flicks  on  the  broadening  circle  over  each 
The  delicatest  touch  of  dropping  flies, 
Then  pulls  more  line  and  whips  a  longer  reach, 
Longing  to  feel  the  rod  bend,  the  reel  screech, 
And  the  quick  comrade  net  the  monster  out, 
So  Anna  played  the  fly  over  her  trout. 

Twice  she  passed,  thrice,  she  with  the  boy  beside  her, 
A  lovely  fly,  hooked  for  a  human  heart, 
She  passed  his  little  gate,  while  Jimmy  eyed  her, 
Feeling  her  beauty  tear  his  soul  apart: 
Then  did  the  great  trout  rise,  the  great  pike  dart, 

[217] 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

The  gate  went  clack,  a  man  came  up  the  hill, 
The  lucky  strike  had  hooked  him  through  the  gill. 

Her  breath  comes  quick,  her  tired  beauty  glows, 

She  would  not  look  behind,  she  looked  ahead, 

It  seemed  to  Jimmy  she  was  like  a  rose, 

A  golden  white  rose  faintly  flushed  with  red. 

Her  eyes  danced  quicker  at  the  approaching  tread, 

Her  finger  nails  dug  sharp  into  her  palm. 

She  yearned  to  Jimmy's  shoulder,  and  kept  calm. 

"Evening,"  said  Shepherd  Ern.     She  turned  and  eyed  him, 

Cold  and  surprised,  but  interested  too, 

To  see  how  much  he  felt  the  hook  inside  him, 

And  how  much  he  surmised,  and  Jimmy  knew, 

And  if  her  beauty  still  could  make  him  do 

The  love  tricks  he  had  gambolled  in  the  past. 

A  glow  shot  through  her  that  her  fish  was  grassed. 

"Evening,"  she  said.    "Good  evening."    Jimmy  felt 

Jealous  and  angry  at  the  shepherd's  tone; 

He  longed  to  hit  the  fellow's  nose  a  belt, 

He  wanted  his  beloved  his  alone. 

A  fellow's  girl  should  be  a  fellow's  own. 

Ern  gave  the  lad  a  glance  and  turned  to  Anna, 

Jim  might  have  been  in  China  by  his  manner. 

"Still  walking  out?"    "As  you  are."    "I'll  be  bound." 
"Can  you  talk  gipsy  yet,  or  plait  a  kipe?" 
"I'll  teach  you  if  I  can  when  I  come  round." 
"And  when  will  that  be?"    "When  the  time  is  ripe." 
And  Jimmy  longed  to  hit  the  man  a  swipe 

[218] 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

Under  the  chin  to  knock  him  out  of  time, 
But  Anna  stayed:  she  still  had  twigs  to  lime. 

"Come,  Anna,  come,  my  dear,"  he  muttered  low. 
She  frowned,  and  blinked  and  spoke  again  to  Ern. 
I  hear  the  gipsy  has  a  row  to  hoe." 
"The  more  you  hear,"  he  said,  "the  less  you'll  learn.' 
"We've  come  out,"  she  said,  "to  take  a  turn; 
Suppose  you  come  along:  the  more  the  merrier." 
"All  right,"  he  said,  "but  how  about  the  terrier?" 

He  cocked  an  eye  at  Jimmy.     "Does  he  bite?" 
Jimmy  blushed  scarlet.    "He's  a  dear,"  said  she. 
Ern  walked  a  step,  "Will  you  be  in  tonight?" 
She  shook  her  head,  "I  doubt  if  that  may  be. 
Jim,  here's  a  friend  who  wants  to  talk  to  me, 
So  will  you  go  and  come  another  day?" 
"By  crimes,  I  won't!"  said  Jimmy,  "I  shall  stay." 

"  I  thought  he  bit,"  said  Ern,  and  Anna  smiled, 
And  Jimmy  saw  the  smile  and  watched  her  face 
While  all  the  jealous  devils  made  him  wild; 
A  third  in  love  is  always  out  of  place; 
And  then  her  gentle  body  full  of  grace 
Leaned  to  him  sweetly  as  she  tossed  her  head, 
"Perhaps  we  two'll  be  getting  on,"  she  said. 

They  walked,  but  Jimmy  turned  to  watch  the  third. 
"I'm  here,  not  you,"  he  said;  the  shepherd  grinned: 
Anna  was  smiling  sweet  without  a  word; 
She  got  the  scarlet  berry  branch  unpinned. 
"It's  cold,"  she  said,  "this  evening,  in  the  wind." 

[219] 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

A  quick  glance  showed  that  Jimmy  didn't  mind  her, 
She  beckoned  with  the  berry  branch  behind  her. 

Then  dropped  it  gently  on  the  broken  stones, 

Preoccupied,  unheeding,  walking  straight, 

Saying  "You  jealous  boy,"  in  even  tones, 

Looking  so  beautiful,  so  delicate, 

Being  so  very  sweet:  but  at  her  gate 

She  felt  her  shoe  unlaced  and  looked  to  know 

If  Ern  had  taken  up  the  sprig  or  no. 

He  had,  she  smiled.    "Anna,"  said  Jimmy  sadly, 
"That  man's  not  fit  to  be  a  friend  of  yourn, 
He's  nobbut  just  an  oaf;  I  love  you  madly, 
And  hearing  you  speak  kind  to'm  made  me  burn. 
Who  is  he,  then?"    She  answered  "Shepherd  Ern, 
A  pleasant  man,  an  old,  old  friend  of  mine." 
"By  cripes,  then,  Anna,  drop  him,  he's  a  swine." 

"Jimmy,"  she  said,  "you  must  have  faith  in  me, 
Faith's  all  the  battle  in  a  love  like  ours. 
You  must  believe,  my  darling,  don't  you  see, 
That  life  to  have  its  sweets  must  have  its  sours. 
Love  isn't  always  two  souls  picking  flowers. 
You  must  have  faith.    I  give  you  all  I  can. 
What,  can't  I  say  'Good  evening'  to  a  man?'* 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  "but  not  a  man  like  him." 
"Why  not  a  man  like  him?"  she  said,  "What  next?" 
By  this  they'd  reached  her  cottage  in  the  dim, 
Among  the  daisies  that  the  cold  had  kexed. 
"Because  I  say.    Now,  Anna,  don't  be  vexed." 
[220] 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

"I'm  more  than  vexed,"  she  said,  "with  words  like  these. 
'You  say,'  indeed.    How  dare  you.    Leave  me,  please." 

"Anna,  my  Anna."    "Leave  me."    She  was  cold, 
Proud  and  imperious  with  a  lifting  lip, 
Blazing  within,  but  outwardly  controlled; 
He  had  a  colt's  first  instant  of  the  whip. 
The  long  lash  curled  to  cut  a  second  strip. 
"You  to  presume  to  teach.    Of  course,  I  know 
You're  mother's  Sunday  scholar,  aren't  you?    Go." 

She  slammed  the  door  behind  her,  clutching  skirts. 
"Anna."    He  heard  her  bedroom  latches  thud. 
He  learned  at  last  how  bitterly  love  hurts; 
He  longed  to  cut  her  throat  and  see  her  blood, 
To  stamp  her  blinking  eyeballs  into  mud. 
"Anna,  by  God!"    Love's  many  torments  make 
That  tune  soon  change  to  "Dear,  for  Jesus'  sake." 

He  beat  the  door  for  her.    She  never  stirred, 

But  primming  bitter  lips  before  her  glass; 

Admired  her  hat  as  though  she  hadn't  heard, 

And  tried  her  front  hair  parted,  and  in  mass. 

She  heard  her  lover's  hasty  footsteps  pass. 

"He's  gone,"  she  thought.    She  crouched  below  the  pane, 

And  heard  him  cursing  as  he  tramped  the  lane. 

Rage  ran  in  Jimmy  as  he  tramped  the  night; 
Rage,  strongly  mingled  with  a  youth's  disgust 
At  finding  a  beloved  woman  light, 
And  all  her  precious  beauty  dirty  dust; 
A  tinsel-varnish  gilded  over  lust. 

I  221] 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

Nothing  but  that.    He  sat  him  down  to  rage, 
Beside  the  stream  whose  waters  never  age. 

Plashing,  it  slithered  down  the  tiny  fall 

To  eddy  wrinkles  in  the  trembling  pool 

With  that  light  voice  whose  music  cannot  pall, 

Always  the  note  of  solace,  flute-like,  cool. 

And  when  hot-headed  man  has  been  a  fool, 

He  could  not  do  a  wiser  thing  than  go 

To  that  dim  pool  where  purple  teazels  grow. 

He  glowered  there  until  suspicion  came, 
Suspicion,  anger's  bastard,  with  mean  tongue, 
To  mutter  to  him  till  his  heart  was  flame, 
And  every  fibre  of  his  soul  was  wrung, 
That  even  then  Ern  and  his  Anna  clung 
Mouth  against  mouth  in  passionate  embrace. 
There  was  no  peace  for  Jimmy  in  the  place. 

Raging  he  hurried  back  to  learn  the  truth. 
The  little  swinging  wicket  glimmered  white, 
The  chimney  jagged  the  skyline  like  a  tooth, 
Bells  came  in  swoons,  for  it  was  Sunday  night. 
The  garden  was  all  dark,  but  there  was  light 
Up  in  the  little  room  where  Anna  slept : 
The  hot  blood  beat  his  brain;  he  crept,  he  crept. 

Clutching  himself  to  hear,  clutching  to  know, 
Along  the  path,  rustling  with  withered  leaves, 
Up  to  the  apple,  too  decayed  to  blow, 
Which  crooked  a  palsied  finger  at  the  eaves. 
And  up  the  lichened  trunk  his  body  heaves. 
[222] 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

Dust  blinded  him,  twigs  snapped,  the  branches  shook, 
He  leaned  along  a  mossy  bough  to  look. 

Nothing  at  first,  except  a  guttering  candle 
Shaking  amazing  shadows  on  the  ceiling. 
Then  Anna's  voice  upon  a  bar  of  "Randal, 
Where  have  you  been?"  and  voice  and  music  reeling, 
Trembling,  as  though  she  sang  with  flooding  feeling. 
The  singing  stopped  midway  upon  the  stair, 
Then  Anna  showed  in  white  with  loosened  hair. 

Her  back  was  towards  him,  and  she  stood  awhile, 
Like  a  wild  creature  tossing  back  her  mane, 
And  then  her  head  went  back,  he  saw  a  smile 
On  the  half  face  half  turned  towards  the  pane; 
Her  eyes  closed,  and  her  arms  went  out  again. 
Jim  gritted  teeth,  and  called  upon  his  Maker, 
She  dropped  into  a  man's  arms  there  to  take  her. 

Agony  first,  sharp,  sudden,  like  a  knife, 
Then  down  the  tree  to  batter  at  the  door; 
"Open  there.    Let  me  in.    I'll  have  your  life. 
You  Jezebel  of  hell,  you  painted  whore. 
Talk  about  faith,  I'll  give  you  faith  galore." 
The  window  creaked,  a  jug  of  water  came 
Over  his  head  and  neck  with  certain  aim. 

"Clear  out,"  said  Ern;  "I'm  here,  not  you,  to-night, 
Clear  out.    We  whip  young  puppies  when  they  yap." 
"If  you're  a  man,"  said  Jim,  "come  down  and  fight, 
I'll  put  a  stopper  on  your  ugly  chap." 
"Go  home,"  said  Ern;  "go  home  and  get  your  pap. 
[223] 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

To  kennel,  pup,  and  bid  your  mother  bake 
Some  soothing  syrup  in  your  puppy-cake." 

There  was  a  dibble  sticking  in  the  bed, 

Jim  wrenched  it  out  and  swung  it  swiftly  round, 

And  sent  it  flying  at  the  shepherd's  head: 

"I'll  give  you  puppy-cake.    Take  that,  you  hound." 

The  broken  glass  went  clinking  to  the  ground, 

The  dibble  balanced,  checked,  and  followed  flat. 

"My  God,"  said  Ern,  "I'll  give  you  hell  for  that." 

He  flung  the  door  ajar  with  "Now,  my  pup — 
Hold  up  the  candle,  Anna — now,  we'll  see." 
"By  crimes,  come  on,"  said  Jimmy;  "put  them  up. 
Come,  put  them  up,  you  coward,  here  I  be." 
And  Jim,  eleven  stone,  what  chance  had  he 
Against  fourteen?  but  what  he  could  he  did; 
Ern  swung  his  right:  "That  settles  you,  my  kid." 

Jimmy  went  down  and  out:  "The  kid,"  said  Ern. 
"A  kid,  a  sucking  puppy;  hold  the  light." 
And  Anna  smiled:  "It  gave  me  such  a  turn. 
You  look  so  splendid,  Ernie,  when  you  fight." 
She  looked  at  Jim  with:  "Ern,  is  he  all  right?" 
"He's  coming  to."    She  shuddered,  "Pah,  the  brute, 
What  things  he  said;  "  she  stirred  him  with  her  foot. 

"You  go  inside,"  said  Ern,  "and  bolt  the  door, 
I'll  deal  with  him."     She  went  and  Jimmy  stood. 
"Now,  pup,"  said  Ern,  "don't  come  round  here  no  more. 
I'm  here,  not  you,  let  that  be  understood. 
I  tell  you  frankly,  pup,  for  your  own  good." 

[224] 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

"Give  me  my  hat,"  said  Jim.    He  passed  the  gate, 
And  as  he  tottered  off  he  called,  "You  wait." 

"Thanks,  I  don't  have  to,"  Shepherd  Ern  replied; 

"You'll  do  whatever  waiting's  being  done." 

The  door  closed  gently  as  he  went  inside, 

The  bolts  jarred  in  the  channels  one  by  one. 

"I'll  give  you  throwing  bats  about,  my  son. 

Anna."    "My  dear?"    "Where  are  you?"    "Come  and  find." 

The  light  went  out,  the  windows  stared  out  blind, 

Blind  as  blind  eyes  forever  seeing  dark. 

And  in  the  dim  the  lovers  went  upstairs, 

Her  eyes  fast  closed,  the  shepherd's  burning  stark, 

His  lips  entangled  in  her  straying  hairs, 

Breath  coming  short  as  in  a  convert's  prayers, 

Her  stealthy  face  all  drowsy  in  the  dim 

And  full  of  shudders  as  she  yearned  to  him. 

Jim  crossed  the  water,  cursing  in  his  tears, 

"By  cripes,  you  wait.    My  God,  he's  with  her  now, 

And  all  her  hair  pulled  down  over  her  ears; 

Loving  the  blaggard  like  a  filthy  sow. 

I  saw  her  kiss  him  from  the  apple  bough. 

They  say  a  whore  is  always  full  of  wiles. 

0  God,  how  sweet  her  eyes  are  when  she  smiles. 

Curse  her  and  curse  her.    No,  my  God,  she's  sweet, 
It's  all  a  helly  nightmare.    I  shall  wake. 
If  it  were  all  a  dream  I'd  kiss  her  feet, 

1  wish  it  were  a  dream  for  Jesus'  sake. 
One  thing :  I  bet  I  made  his  guzzle  ache, 

[225! 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

I  cop  it  fair  before  he  sent  me  down, 

I'll  cop  him  yet  some  evening  on  the  crown. 

0  God,  O  God,  what  pretty  ways  she  had. 
He's  kissing  all  her  skin,  so  white  and  soft. 
She's  kissing  back.     I  think  I'm  going  mad. 
Like  rutting  rattens  in  the  apple  loft. 

She  held  that  light  she  carried  high  aloft 
Full  in  my  eyes  for  him  to  hit  me  by, 

1  had  the  light  all  dazzling  in  my  eye. 

She  had  her  dress  all  clutched  up  to  her  shoulder, 
And  all  her  naked  arm  was  all  one  gleam. 
It's  going  to  freeze  to-night,  it's  turning  colder. 
I  wish  there  was  more  water  in  the  stream, 
I'd  drownd  myself.     Perhaps  it's  all  a  dream, 
And  by  and  bye  I'll  wake  and  find  it  stuff. 
By  crimes,  the  pain  I  suffer's  real  enough." 

About  two  hundred  yards  from  Gunder  Loss 
He  stopped  to  shudder,  leaning  on  the  gate, 
He  bit  the  touchwood  underneath  the  moss; 
"Rotten,  like  her,"  he  muttered  in  his  hate; 
He  spat  it  out  again  with  "But,  you  wait, 
We'll  see  again,  before  to-morrow's  past, 
In  this  life  he  laughs  longest  who  laughs  last." 

All  through  the  night  the  stream  ran  to  the  sea, 
The  different  water  always  saying  the  same, 
Cat-like,  and  then  a  tinkle,  never  glee, 
A  lonely  little  child  alone  in  shame. 
An  otter  snapped  a  thorn  twig  when  he  came, 
It  drifted  down,  it  passed  the  Hazel  Mill, 
It  passed  the  Springs;  but  Jimmy  stayed  there  still. 
[226] 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

Over  the  pointed  hill-top  came  the  light, 
Out  of  the  mists  on  Ercall  came  the  sun, 
Red  like  a  huntsman  hallowing  after  night, 
Blowing  a  horn  to  rouse  up  everyone; 
Through  many  glittering  cities  he  had  run, 
Splashing  the  wind  vanes  on  the  dewy  roofs 
With  golden  sparks  struck  by  his  horses'  hoofs. 

The  watchman  rose,  rubbing  his  rusty  eyes, 

He  stirred  the  pot  of  cocoa  for  his  mate; 

The  fireman  watched  his  head  of  power  rise. 

"What  time?"  he  asked. 

"You  haven't  long  to  wait." 

"Now,  is  it  time?" 

"Yes.     Let  her  ripple."     Straight 

The  whistle  shrieked  its  message,  "Up  to  work! 

Up,  or  be  fined  a  quarter  if  you  shirk." 

Hearing  the  whistle,  Jimmy  raised  his  head, 
"The  warning  call,  and  me  in  Sunday  clo'es; 
I'd  better  go;  I've  time.    The  sun  looks  red, 
I  feel  so  stiff  I'm  very  nearly  froze." 
So  over  brook  and  through  the  fields  he  goes, 
And  up  the  line  among  the  navvies'  smiles, 
"Young  Jimmy  Gurney's  been  upon  the  tiles." 

The  second  whistle  blew  and  work  began, 
Jimmy  worked  too,  not  knowing  what  he  did, 
He  tripped  and  stumbled  like  a  drunken  man; 
He  muddled  all,  whatever  he  was  bid, 
The  foreman  cursed,  "Good  God,  what  ails  the  kid? 
Hi!    Gurney.    You.    We'll  have  you  crocking  soon, 
You  take  a  lie  down  till  the  afternoon." 
[227] 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

"I  won't,"  he  answered.    "Why  the  devil  should  I? 
I'm  here,  I  mean  to  work.    I  do  my  piece, 
Or  would  do  if  a  man  could,  but  how  could  I 
When  you  come  nagging  round  and  never  cease? 
Well,  take  the  job  and  give  me  my  release, 
I  want  the  sack,  now  give  it,  there's  my  pick; 
Give  me  the  sack."    The  sack  was  given  quick. 

PART  V 

Dully  he  got  his  time-check  from  the  keeper. 
"Curse  her,"  he  said;  "and  that's  the  end  of  whores 
He  stumbled  drunkenly  across  a  sleeper — 
"Give  all  you  have  and  get  kicked  out — a-door." 
He  cashed  his  time-check  at  the  station  stores. 
"Bett'ring  yourself,  I  hope,  Jim,"  said  the  master; 
"That's  it,"  said  Jim;  "and  so  I  will  do,  blast  her." 

Beyond  the  bridge,  a  sharp  turn  to  the  right 

Leads  to  "The  Bull  and  Boar,"  the  carters'  rest; 

An  inn  so  hidden  it  is  out  of  sight 

To  anyone  not  coming  from  the  west, 

The  high  embankment  hides  it  with  its  crest. 

Far  up  above,  the  Chester  trains  go  by, 

The  drinkers  see  them  sweep  against  the  sky. 

Canal  men  used  it  when  the  bargers  came, 
The  navvies  used  it  when  the  line  was  making; 
The  pigeons  strut  and  sidle,  ruffling,  tame, 
The  chuckling  brook  in  front  sets  shadows  shaking. 
Cider  and  beer  for  thirsty  workers'  slaking, 
A  quiet  house;  like  all  that  God  controls, 
It  is  Fate's  instrument  on  human  souls. 

[228! 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

Thither  Jim  turned.    "And  now  I'll  drink,"  he  said. 

"I'll  drink  and  drink — I  never  did  before — 

I'll  drink  and  drink  until  I'm  mad  or  dead, 

For  that's  what  comes  of  meddling  with  a  whore." 

He  called  for  liquor  at  "The  Bull  and  Boar"; 

Moody  he  drank;  the  woman  asked  him  why: 

"Have  you  had  trouble?"    "No,"  he  said,  "I'm  dry. 

Dry  and  burnt  up,  so  give's  another  drink; 
That's  better,  that's  much  better,  that's  the  sort," 
And  then  he  sang,  so  that  he  should  not  think, 
His  Binger-Bopper  song,  but  cut  it  short. 
His  wits  were  working  like  a  brewer's  wort, 
Until  among  them  came  the  vision  gleaming 
Of  Ern  with  bloody  nose  and  Anna  screaming. 

"That's  what  I'll  do,"  he  muttered;  "knock  him  out, 
And  kick  his  face  in  with  a  running  jump. 
I'll  not  have  dazzled  eyes  this  second  bout, 
And  she  can  wash  the  fragments  under  pump." 
It  was  his  ace;  but  Death  had  played  a  trump. 
Death  the  blind  beggar  chuckled,  nodding  dumb, 
"My  game;  the  shroud  is  ready,  Jimmy — come." 

Meanwhile,  the  mother,  waiting  for  her  child, 
Had  tottered  out  a  dozen  times  to  search. 
"Jimmy,"  she  said,  "you'll  drive  your  mother  wild; 
Your  father's  name's  too  good  a  name  to  smirch, 
Come  home,  my  dear,  she'll  leave  you  in  the  lurch; 
He  was  so  good,  my  little  Jim,  so  clever; 
He  never  stop  a  night,  away,  not  ever. 
[229! 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

He  never  slept  a  night  away  till  now, 
Never,  not  once,  in  all  the  time  he's  been. 
It's  the  Lord's  will,  they  say,  and  we  must  bow, 
But  O,  it's  like  a  knife,  it  cuts  so  keen! 
He'll  work  in's  Sunday  clothes,  it'll  be  seen, 
And  then  they'll  laugh,  and  say  'It  isn't  strange; 
He  slept  with  her,  and  so  he  couldn't  change.' 

Perhaps,"  she  thought,  "I'm  wrong;  perhaps  he's  dead; 

Killed  himself  like;  folk  do  in  love,  they  say. 

He  never  tells  what  passes  in  his  head, 

And  he's  been  looking  late  so  old  and  grey. 

A  railway  train  has  cut  his  head  away, 

Like  the  poor  hare  we  found  at  Maylow's  shack. 

0  God,  have  pity,  bring  my  darling  back!" 

All  the  high  stars  went  sweeping  through  the  sky, 
The  sun  made  all  the  orient  clean,  clear  gold. 
"O  blessed  God,"  she  prayed,  "do  let  me  die, 
Or  bring  my  wand'ring  lamb  back  into  fold. 
The  whistle's  gone,  and  all  the  bacon's  cold; 

1  must  know  somehow  if  he's  on  the  line, 

He  could  have  bacon  sandwich  when  he  dine." 

She  cut  the  bread,  and  started,  short  of  breath, 
Up  the  canal  now  draining  for  the  rail; 
A  poor  old  woman  pitted  against  death, 
Bringing  her  pennyworth  of  love  for  bail. 
Wisdom,  beauty,  and  love  may  not  avail. 
She  was  too  late.    "Yes,  he  was  here;  oh,  yes. 
He  chucked  his  job  and  went."    "Where?"  "Home,  I  guess." 

[230] 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

"Home,  but  he  hasn't  been  home."    "Well,  he  went. 

Perhaps  you  missed  him,  mother."    "Or  perhaps 

He  took  the  field  path  yonder  through  the  bent. 

He  very  likely  done  that,  don't  he,  chaps?" 

The  speaker  tested  both  his  trouser  straps 

And  took  his  pick.     "He's  in  the  town,"  he  said. 

"He'll  be  all  right,  after  a  bit  in  bed." 

She  trembled  down  the  high  embankment's  ridge, 
Glad,  though  too  late;  not  yet  too  late,  indeed. 
For  forty  yards  away,  beyond  the  bridge, 
Jimmy  still  drank,  the  devil  still  sowed  seed. 
"A  bit  in  bed,"  she  thought,  "is  what  I  need. 
I'll  go  to  'Bull  and  Boar'  and  rest  a  bit, 
They've  got  a  bench  outside;  they'd  let  me  sit." 

Even  as  two  soldiers  on  a  fortress  wall 

See  the  bright  fire  streak  of  a  coming  shell, 

Catch  breath,  and  wonder  "Which  way  will  it  fall? 

To  you?  to  me?  or  will  it  all  be  well?" 

Ev'n  so  stood  life  and  death,  and  could  not  tell 

Whether  she'd  go  to  th'  inn  and  find  her  son, 

Or  take  the  field  and  let  the  doom  be  done. 

"No,  not  the  inn,"  she  thought.    "People  would  talk. 
I  couldn't  in  the  open  daytime;  no. 
I'll  just  sit  here  upon  the  timber  balk, 
I'll  rest  for  just  a  minute  and  then  go." 
Resting,  her  old  tired  heart  began  to  glow, 
Glowed  and  gave  thanks,  and  thought  itself  in  clover, 
"He's  lost  his  job,  so  now  she'll  throw  him  over." 
[231] 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

Sitting,  she  saw  the  rustling  thistle-kex, 
The  picks  flash  bright  above,  the  trolleys  tip. 
The  bridge-stone  shining,  full  of  silver  specks, 
And  three  swift  children  running  down  the  dip. 
A  Stoke  Saint  Michael  carter  cracked  his  whip, 
The  water  in  the  runway  made  its  din. 
She  half  heard  singing  coming  from  the  inn. 

She  turned,  and  left  the  inn,  and  took  the  path 

And  "Brother  Life,  you  lose,"  said  Brother  Death, 

"  Even  as  the  Lord  of  all  appointed  hath 

In  this  great  miracle  of  blood  and  breath." 

He  doeth  all  things  well,  as  the  book  saith, 

He  bids  the  changing  stars  fulfil  their  turn, 

His  hand  is  on  us  when  we  least  discern. 

. 
Slowly  she  tottered,  stopping  with  the  stitch, 

Catching  her  breath,  "O  lawks,  a  dear,  a  dear. 
How  the  poor  tubings  in  my  heart  do  twitch, 
It  hurts  like  the  rheumatics  very  near." 
And  every  painful  footstep  drew  her  clear 
From  that  young  life  she  bore  with  so  much  pain. 
She  never  had  him  to  herself  again. 


Out  of  the  inn  came  Jimmy,  red  with  drink, 
Crying:  "I'll  show  her.    Wait  a  bit.    I'll  show  her  . 
You  wait  a  bit.    I'm  not  the  kid  you  think. 
I'm  Jimmy  Gurney,  champion  tupper-thrower, 
When  I  get  done  with  her  you'll  never  know  her, 
Nor  him  you  won't.    Out  of  my  way,  you  fowls, 
Or  else  I'll  rip  the  red  things  off  your  jowls." 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

He  went  across  the  fields  to  Plaister's  End. 

There  was  a  lot  of  water  in  the  brook, 

Sun  and  white  cloud  and  weather  on  the  mend 

For  any  man  with  any  eyes  to  look. 

He  found  old  Callow's  plough-bat,  which  he  took. 

"My  innings  now,  my  pretty  dear,"  said  he. 

"You  wait  a  bit.    I'll  show  you.    Now  you'll  see." 

Her  chimney  smoke  was  blowing  blue  and  faint, 

The  wise  duck  shook  a  tail  across  the  pool, 

The  blacksmith's  shanty  smelt  of  burning  paint, 

Four  newly  tired  cartwheels  hung  to  cool. 

He  had  loved  the  place  when  under  Anna's  rule. 

Now  he  clenched  teeth  and  flung  aside  the  gate, 

There  at  the  door  they  stood.    He  grinned    "Now  wait/ 

Ern  had  just  brought  her  in  a  wired  hare, 

She  stood  beside  him  stroking  down  the  fur. 

"O,  Ern,  poor  thing,  look  how  its  eyes  do  stare." 

"It  isn't  it"  he  answered.    "It's  a  her." 

She  stroked  the  breast  and  plucked  away  a  bur, 

She  kissed  the  pads,  and  leapt  back  with  a  shout, 

"My  God,  he's  got  the  spudder.    Ern.    Look  out." 

Ern  clenched  his  fists.    Too  late.    He  felt  no  pain, 
Only  incredible  haste  in  something  swift, 
A  shock  that  made  the  sky  black  on  his  brain, 
Then  stillness,  while  a  little  cloud  went  drift. 
The  weight  upon  his  thigh  bones  wouldn't  lift; 
Then  poultry  in  a  long  procession  came, 
Grey-legged,  doing  the  goose-step,  eyes  like  flame. 

[233] 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

Grey-legged  old  cocks  and  hens  sedate  in  age, 
Marching  with  jerks  as  though  they  moved  on  springs, 
With  sidelong  hate  in  round  eyes  red  with  rage, 
And  shouldered  muskets  clipped  by  jealous  wings, 
Then  an  array  of  horns  and  stupid  things: 
Sheep  on  a  hill  with  harebells,  hare  for  dinner. 
"Hare."    A  slow  darkness  covered  up  the  sinner. 

"But  little  time  is  right  hand  fain  of  blow." 

Only  a  second  changes  life  to  death; 

Hate  ends  before  the  pulses  cease  to  go, 

There  is  great  power  in  the  stop  of  breath. 

There's  too  great  truth  in  what  the  dumb  thing  saith, 

Hate  never  goes  so  far  as  that,  nor  can. 

"I  am  what  life  becomes.    D'you  hate  me,  man?" 

Hate  with  his  babbling  instant,  red  and  damning, 

Passed  with  his  instant,  having  drunken  red. 

"You've  killed  him." 

"No,  I've  not,  he's  only  shamming. 

Get  up." 

"He  can't." 

"O  God,  he  isn't  dead." 

"O  God." 

"Here.    Get  a  basin.    Bathe  his  head. 

Ernie,  for  God's  sake,  what  are  you  playing  at? 

I  only  give  him  one,  like,  with  the  bat." 

Man  cannot  call  the  brimming  instant  back; 
Time's  an  affair  of  instants  spun  to  days; 
If  man  must  make  an  instant  gold,  or  black, 
Let  him,  he  may,  but  Time  must  go  his  ways. 
Life  may  be  duller  for  an  instant's  blaze. 
[2341 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

Life's  an  affair  of  instants  spun  to  years, 
Instants  are  only  cause  of  all  these  tears. 

Then  Anna  screamed  aloud.    "  Help.    Murder.    Murder.' 

"By  God,  it  is,"  he  said.    "Through  you,  you  slut." 

Backing,  she  screamed,  until  the  blacksmith  heard  her. 

"Hurry,"  they  cried,  "the  woman's  throat's  being  cut." 

Jim  had  his  coat  off  by  the  water  butt. 

"He  might  come  to,"  he  said,  "with  wine  or  soup. 

I  only  hit  him  once,  like,  with  the  scoop." 

"Splash  water  on  him,  chaps.    I  only  meant 
To  hit  him  just  a  clip,  like,  nothing  more. 
There.  Look.    He  isn't  dead,  his  eyelids  went. 
And  he  went  down.    O  God,  his  head's  all  tore. 
I've  washed  and  washed:  it's  all  one  gob  of  gore. 
He  don't  look  dead  to  you?    What?    Nor  to  you? 
Not  kill,  the  clip  I  give  him,  couldn't  do." 

"God  send;  he  looks  damn  bad,"  the  blacksmith  said. 
"Py  Cot,"  his  mate  said,  "she  wass  altogether; 
She  hass  an  illness  look  of  peing  ted." 
"Here.    Get  a  glass,"  the  smith  said,  "and  a  feather." 
"Wass  you  at  fightings  or  at  playings  whether? 
"Here,  get  a  glass  and  feather.    Quick's  the  word." 
The  glass  was  clear.    The  feather  never  stirred. 

"By  God,  I'm  sorry,  Jim.    That  settles  it." 
"By  God.    I've  killed  him,  then." 

"The  doctor  might." 

"Try,  if  you  like;  but  that's  a  nasty  hit." 
"Doctor's  gone  by.    He  won't  be  back  till  night." 
"Py  Cot,  the  feather  was  not  looking  right." 

[23Sl 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

"By  Jesus,  chaps,  I  never  meant  to  kill  'un. 
Only  to  bat.    I'll  go  to  p'leece  and  tell  'un. 

O  Ern,  for  God's  sake  speak,  for  God's  sake  speak." 

No  answer  followed:    Ern  had  done  with  dust, 

"The  p'leece  is  best,"  the  smith  said,  "or  a  beak. 

I'll  come  along;  and  so  the  lady  must. 

Evans,  you  bring  the  lady,  will  you  just? 

Tell  'em  just  how  it  come,  lad.    Come  your  ways; 

And  Joe,  you  watch  the  body  where  it  lays." 

They  walked  to  town,  Jim  on  the  blacksmith's  arm. 

Jimmy  was  crying  like  a  child,  and  saying, 

"I  never  meant  to  do  him  any  harm." 

His  teeth  went  clack,  like  bones  at  mummers  playing, 

And  then  he  trembled  hard  and  broke  out  praying, 

"God  help  my  poor  old  mother.     If  he's  dead, 

I've  brought  her  my  last  wages  home,"  he  said. 

He  trod  his  last  free  journey  down  the  street; 
Treading  the  middle  road,  and  seeing  both  sides, 
The  school,  the  inns,  the  butchers  selling  meat, 
The  busy  market  where  the  town  divides. 
Then  past  the  tanpits  full  of  stinking  hides, 
And  up  the  lane  to  death,  as  weak  as  pith. 
"By  God,  I  hate  this,  Jimmy,"  said  the  smith. 

PART  VI 

Anna  in  black,  the  judge  in  scarlet  robes, 
A  fuss  of  lawyers'  people  coming,  going, 
The  windows  shut,  the  gas  alight  in  globes, 
[236] 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

Evening  outside,  and  pleasant  weather  blowing. 
"They'll  hang  him?"  "I  suppose  so;  there's  no  knowing." 
"A  pretty  piece,  the  woman,  ain't  she,  John? 
He  killed  the  fellow  just  for  carrying  on." 

"She  give  her  piece  to  counsel  pretty  clear." 

"Ah,  that  she  did,  and  when  she  stop  she  smiled." 

"She's  had  a-many  men,  that  pretty  dear; 

She's  drove  a-many  fellow  pretty  wild." 

"More  silly  idiots  they  to  be  beguiled." 

"Well,  I  don't  know."     "Well,  I  do.    See  her  eyes? 

Mystery,  eh?    A  woman's  mystery's  lies." 

"Perhaps."     "No  p'raps  about  it,  that's  the  truth. 
I  know  these  women;  they're  a  rotten  lot." 
"You  didn't  use  to  think  so  in  your  youth." 
"No;  but  I'm  wiser  now,  and  not  so  hot. 
Married  or  buried,  /  say,  wives  or  shot, 
These  unmanned,  unattached  Maries  and  Susans 
Make  life  no  better  than  a  proper  nuisance." 

"Well,  I  don't  know."    "Well,  if  you  don't  you  will." 
"I  look  on  women  as  as  good  as  men." 
"Now,  that's  the  kind  of  talk  that  makes  me  ill. 
When  have  they  been  as  good?    I  ask  you  when?" 
"Always  they  have."    "They  haven't.    Now  and  then 
P'raps  one  or  two  was  neither  hen  nor  fury." 
"One  for  your  mother,  that.    Here  comes  the  jury." 

Guilty.    Thumbs  down.    No  hope.    The  judge  passed  sentence: 
"A  frantic  passionate  youth,  unfit  for  life, 
A  fitting  time  afforded  for  repentance, 

[2371 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

Then  certain  justice  with  a  pitiless  knife. 
For  her,  his  wretched  victim's  widowed  wife, 
Pity.     For  her  who  bore  him,  pity.     (Cheers.) 
The  jury  were  exempt  for  seven  years." 

All  bowed;  the  Judge  passed  to  the  robing-room, 
Dismissed  his  clerks,  disrobed,  and  knelt  and  prayed 
As  was  his  custom  after  passing  doom, 
Doom  upon  life,  upon  the  thing  not  made. 
"O  God,  who  made  us  out  of  dust,  and  laid 
Thee  in  us  bright,  to  lead  us  to  the  truth, 
O  God,  have  pity  upon  this  poor  youth. 

Show  him  Thy  grace,  O  God,  before  he  die; 
Shine  in  his  heart;  have  mercy  upon  me 
Who  deal  the  laws  men  make  to  travel  by 
Under  the  sun  upon  the  path  to  Thee; 
O  God,  Thou  knowest  I'm  as  blind  as  he, 
As  blind,  as  frantic,  not  so  single,  worse, 
Only  Thy  pity  spared  me  from  the  curse. 

Thy  pity,  and  Thy  mercy,  God,  did  save, 

Thy  bounteous  gifts,  not  any  grace  of  mine, 

From  all  the  pitfalls  leading  to  the  grave, 

From  all  the  death-feasts  with  the  husks  and  swine. 

God,  who  hast  given  me  all  things,  now  make  shine 

Bright  in  this  sinner's  heart  that  he  may  see. 

God,  take  this  poor  boy's  spirit  back  to  Thee." 

Then  trembling  with  his  hands,  for  he  was  old, 
He  went  to  meet  his  college  friend,  the  Dean, 
The  loiterers  watched  him  as  his  carriage  rolled. 
[238] 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

"There  goes  the  Judge,"  said  one,  and  one  was  keen: 
"Hanging  that  wretched  boy,  that's  where  he's  been." 
A  policeman  spat,  two  lawyers  talked  statistics, 
"'Crime  passionel'  in  Agricultural  Districts." 

"They'd  oughtn't  hang  a  boy:"  but  one  said  "Stuff. 

This  sentimental  talk  is  rotten,  rotten. 

The  law's  the  law  and  not  half  strict  enough, 

Forgers  and  murderers  are  misbegotten, 

Let  them  be  hanged  and  let  them  be  forgotten. 

A  rotten  fool  should  have  a  rotten  end; 

Mend  them,  you  say?    The  rotten  never  mend." 

And  one  "Not  mend?    The  rotten  not,  perhaps. 

The  rotting  would;  so  would  the  just  infected. 

A  week  in  quod  has  ruined  lots  of  chaps 

Who'd  all  got  good  in  them  till  prison  wrecked  it." 

And  one,  "Society  must  be  protected." 

"He's  just  a  kid.    She  trapped  him."    "No,  she  didden.' 

"He'll  be  reprieved."    "He  mid  be  and  he  midden." 

So  the  talk  went;  and  Anna  took  the  train,. 
Too  sad  for  tears,  and  pale;  a  lady  spoke 
Asking  if  she  were  ill  or  suffering  pain  ? 
"Neither,"  she  said;  but  sorrow  made  her  choke, 
"I'm  only  sick  because  my  heart  is  broke. 
My  friend,  a  man,  my  oldest  friend  here,  died. 
I  had  to  see  the  man  who  killed  him,  tried. 

He's  to  be  hanged.    Only  a  boy.    My  friend. 
I  thought  him  just  a  boy;  I  didn't  know. 
And  Ern  was  killed,  and  now  the  boy's  to  end, 

[239! 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

And  all  because  he  thought  he  loved  me  so." 
"My  dear,"  the  lady  said;  and  Anna,  "Oh, 
It's  very  hard  to  bear  the  ills  men  make, 
He  thought  he  loved,  and  it  was  all  mistake." 

"My  dear,"  the  lady  said;  "you  poor,  poor  woman, 
Have  you  no  friends  to  go  to?"     'I'm  alone. 
I've  parents  living,  but  they're  both  inhuman, 
And  none  can  cure  what  pierces  to  the  bone. 
I'll  have  to  leave  and  go  where  I'm  not  known. 
Begin  my  life  again."    Her  friend  said  "Yes. 
Certainly  that.    But  leave  me  your  address: 

For  I  might  hear  of  something;    I'll  enquire, 

Perhaps  the  boy  might  be  reprieved  or  pardoned. 

Couldn't  we  ask  the  rector  or  the  squire 

To  write  and  ask  the  Judge?    He  can't  be  hardened. 

What  do  you  do?    Is  it  housework?    Have  you  gardened? 

Your  hands  are  very  white  and  soft  to  touch." 

"Lately  I've  not  had  heart  for  doing  much." 

So  the  talk  passes  as  the  train  descends 

Into  the  vale,  and  halts,  and  starts  to  climb 

To  where  the  apple-bearing  country  ends 

And  pleasant-pastured  hills  rise  sweet  with  thyme, 

Where  clinking  sheepbells  make  a  broken  chime 

And  sunwarm  gorses  rich  the  air  with  scent 

And  kestrels  poise  for  mice,  there  Anna  went. 

There,  in  the  April,  in  the  garden-close, 
One  heard  her  in  the  morning  singing  sweet, 
Calling  the  birds  from  the  unbudded  rose, 

[240] 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

Offering  her  lips  with  grains  for  them  to  eat. 
The  redbreasts  come  with  little  wiry  feet, 
Sparrows  and  tits  and  all  wild  feathery  things, 
Brushing  her  lifted  face  with  quivering  wings. 

Jimmy  was  taken  down  into  a  cell, 

He  did  not  need  a  hand,  he  made  no  fuss. 

The  men  were  kind:    "For  what  the  kid  done  .    .    .  well- 

The  same  might  come  to  any  one  of  us." 

They  brought  him  bits  of  cake  at  tea  time:  thus 

The  love  that  fashioned  all  in  human  ken, 

Works  in  the  marvellous  hearts  of  simple  men. 

And  in  the  nights  (they  watched  him  night  and  day) 
They  told  him  bits  of  stories  through  the  grating, 
Of  how  the  game  went  at  the  football  play, 
And  how  the  rooks  outside  had  started  mating. 
And  all  the  time  they  knew  the  rope  was  waiting, 
And  every  evening  friend  would  say  to  friend, 
"I  hope  we've  not  to  drag  him  at  the  end." 

And  poor  old  mother  came  to  see  her  son, 

"The  Lord  has  gave,"  she  said,  "The  Lord  has  took; 

I  loved  you  very  dear,  my  darling  one, 

And  now  there's  none  but  God  where  we  can  look. 

We've  got  God's  promise  written  in  His  Book, 

He  will  not  fail;  but  oh,  it  do  seem  hard." 

She  hired  a  room  outside  the  prison  yard. 

"Where  did  you  get  the  money  for  the  room? 
And  how  are  you  living,  mother;  how'll  you  live?" 
"It's  what  I'd  saved  to  put  me  in  the  tomb, 

[241] 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

I'll  want  no  tomb  but  what  the  parish  give." 
"Mother,  I  lied  to  you  that  time,  O  forgive, 
I  brought  home  half  my  wages,  half  I  spent, 
And  you  went  short  that  week  to  pay  the  rent. 

I  went  to  see'r,  I  spent  my  money  on  her, 
And  you  who  bore  me  paid  the  cost  in  pain. 
You  went  without  to  buy  the  clothes  upon  her: 
A  hat,  a  locket,  and  a  silver  chain. 
O  mother  dear,  if  all  might  be  again, 
Only  from  last  October,  you  and  me; 

0  mother  dear,  how  different  it  would  be. 

We  were  so  happy  in  the  room  together, 
Singing  at  'Binger-Bopper,'  weren't  us,  just? 
And  going  a-hopping  in  the  summer  weather, 
And  all  the  hedges  covered  white  with  dust, 
And  blackberries,  and  that,  and  traveller's  trust. 

1  thought  her  wronged,  and  true,  and  sweet,  and  wise, 
The  devil  takes  sweet  shapes  when  he  tells  lies. 

Mother,  my  dear,  will  you  forgive  your  son?" 
"God  knows  I  do,  Jim,  I  forgive  you,  dear; 
You  didn't  know,  and  couldn't,  what  you  done. 
God  pity  all  poor  people  suffering  here, 
And  may  His  mercy  shine  upon  us  clear, 
And  may  we  have  His  Holy  Word  for  mark, 
To  lead  us  to  His  Kingdom  through  the  dark." 

"Amen.    Amen,"  said  Jimmy;  then  they  kissed. 
The  warders  watched,  the  little  larks  were  singing, 
A  plough  team  jangled,  turning  at  the  rist; 
[242] 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

Beyond,  the  mild  cathedral  bells  were  ringing, 
The  elm-tree  rooks  were  cawing  at  the  springing: 
O  beauty  of  the  time  when  winter's  done, 
And  all  the  fields  are  laughing  at  the  sun! 

"I  s'pose  they've  brought  the  line  beyond  the  Knapp?" 
"Ah,  and  beyond  the  Barcle,  so  they  say." 
"Hearing  the  rooks  begin  reminds  a  chap. 
Look  queer,  the  street  will,  with  the  lock  away; 

0  God,  I'll  never  see  it."    "Let  us  pray. 
Don't  think  of  that,  but  think,"  the  mother  said, 
"Of  men  going  on  long  after  we  are  dead. 

Red  helpless  little  things  will  come  to  birth, 

And  hear  the  whistles  going  down  the  line, 

And  grow  up  strong  and  go  about  the  earth, 

And  have  much  happier  times  than  yours  and  mine; 

And  some  day  one  of  them  will  get  a  sign, 

And  talk  to  folk,  and  put  an  end  to  sin, 

And  then  God's  blessed  kingdom  will  begin. 

God  dropped  a  spark  down  into  everyone, 

And  if  we  find  and  fan  it  to  a  blaze 

It'll  spring  up  and  glow,  like — like  the  sun, 

And  light  the  wandering  out  of  stony  ways. 

God  warms  his  hands  at  man's  heart  when  he  prays, 

And  light  of  prayer  is  spreading  heart  to  heart; 

It'll  light  all  where  now  it  lights  a  part. 

And  God  who  gave  His  mercies  takes  His  mercies, 
And  God  who  gives  beginning  gives  the  end. 

1  dread  my  death;  but  it's  the  end  of  curses, 

[243] 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

A  rest  for  broken  things  too  broke  to  mend. 
O  Captain  Christ,  our  blessed  Lord  and  Friend, 
We  are  two  wandered  sinners  in  the  mire, 
Burn  our  dead  hearts  with  love  out  of  Thy  fire. 

And  when  thy  death  comes,  Master,  let  us  bear  it 

As  of  Thy  will,  however  hard  to  go; 

Thy  Cross  is  infinite  for  us  to  share  it, 

Thy  help  is  infinite  for  us  to  know. 

And  when  the  long  trumpets  of  the  Judgment  blow 

May  our  poor  souls  be  glad  and  meet  agen, 

And  rest  in  Thee."    "Say,  'Amen,'  Jim."    "Amen." 


There  was  a  group  outside  the  prison  gate, 
Waiting  to  hear  them  ring  the  passing  bell, 
Waiting  as  empty  people  always  wait 
For  the  strong  toxic  of  another's  hell. 
And  mother  stood  there,  too,  not  seeing  well, 
Praying  through  tears  to  let  His  will  be  done, 
And  not  to  hide  His  mercy  from  her  son. 

Talk  in  the  little  group  was  passing  quick. 

"It's  nothing  now  to  what  it  was,  to  watch." 

"  Poor  wretched  kid,  I  bet  he's  feeling  sick." 

"Eh?    What  d'you  say,  chaps?    Someone  got  a  match?5 

"They  draw  a  bolt  and  drop  you  down  a  hatch 

And  break  your  neck,  whereas  they  used  to  strangle 

In  the  old  times,  when  you  could  see  them  dangle." 

Someone  said,  "OfF  hats,"  when  the  bell  began. 
Mother  was  whimpering  now  upon  her  knees. 
A  broken  ringing  like  a  beaten  pan, 

[244! 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

It  sent  the  sparrows  wavering  to  the  trees. 

The  wall-top  grasses  whickered  in  the  breeze, 

The  broken  ringing  clanged,  clattered  and  clanged, 

As  though  men's  bees  were  swarming,  not  men  hanged. 

Now  certain  Justice  with  the  pitiless  knife. 

The  white,  sick  chaplain  snuffling  at  the  nose, 

"I  am  the  resurrection  and  the  life." 

The  bell  still  clangs,  the  small  procession  goes, 

The  prison  warders  ready  ranged  in  rows. 

'Now,  Gurney,  come,  my  dear;  it's  time,"  they  said. 

And  ninety  seconds  later  he  was  dead. 

Some  of  life's  sad  ones  are  too  strong  to  die, 
Grief  doesn't  kill  them  as  it  kills  the  weak, 
Sorrow  is  not  for  those  who  sit  and  cry 
Lapped  in  the  love  of  turning  t'other  cheek, 
But  for  the  noble  souls  austere  and  bleak 
Who  have  had  the  bitter  dose  and  drained  the  cup 
And  wait  for  Death  face  fronted,  standing  up. 

As  the  last  man  upon  the  sinking  ship, 
Seeing  the  brine  creep  brightly  on  the  deck, 
Hearing  aloft  the  slatting  topsails  rip, 
Ripping  to  rags  among  the  topmast's  wreck, 
Yet  hoists  the  new  red  ensign  without  speck, 
That  she,  so  fair,  may  sink  with  colours  flying, 
So  the  old  widowed  mother  kept  from  dying. 

She  tottered  home,  back  to  the  little  room, 

It  was  all  over  for  her,  but  for  life; 

She  drew  the  blinds,  and  trembled  in  the  gloom; 

[245] 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

"I  sat  here  thus  when  I  was  wedded  wife; 
Sorrow  sometimes,  and  joy;  but  always  strife. 
Struggle  to  live  except  just  at  the  last, 

0  God,  I  thank  Thee  for  the  mercies  past. 

Harry,  my  man,  when  we  were  courting;  eh  ... 
The  April  morning  up  the  Cony-gree. 
How  grand  he  looked  upon  our  wedding  day. 
'I  wish  we'd  had  the  bells,'  he  said  to  me; 
And  we'd  the  moon  that  evening,  I  and  he, 
And  dew  come  wet,  oh,  I  remember  how, 
And  we  come  home  to  where  Fm  sitting  now. 

And  he  lay  dead  here,  and  his  son  was  born  here; 

He  never  saw  his  son,  his  little  Jim. 

And  now  I'm  all  alone  here,  left  to  mourn  here, 

And  there  are  all  his  clothes,  but  never  him. 

He's  down  under  the  prison  in  the  dim, 

With  quicklime  working  on  him  to  the  bone, 

The  flesh  I  made  with  many  and  many  a  groan. 

Oh,  how  his  little  face  come,  with  bright  hair. 
Dear  little  face.  We  made  this  room  so  snug; 
He  sit  beside  me  in  his  little  chair, 

1  give  him  real  tea  sometimes  in  his  mug. 
He  liked  the  velvet  in  the  patchwork  rug. 
He  used  to  stroke  it,  did  my  pretty  son, 
He  called  it  Bunny,  little  Jimmy  done. 

And  then  he  ran  so,  he  was  strong  at  running, 
Always  a  strong  one,  like  his  dad  at  that. 
In  summertimes  I  done  my  sewing  sunning, 
[246] 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

And  he'd  be  sprawling,  playing  with  the  cat. 
And  neighbours  brought  their  knitting  out  to  chat 
Till  five  o'clock;  he  had  his  tea  at  five; 
How  sweet  life  was  when  Jimmy  was  alive." 


Darkness  and  midnight,  and  the  midnight  chimes. 

Another  four-and-twenty  hours  begin. 

Darkness  again,  and  many,  many  times, 

The  alternating  light  and  darkness  spin 

Until  the  face  so  thin  is  still  more  thin, 

Gazing  each  earthly  evening,  wet  or  fine, 

For  Jimmy  coming  from  work  along  the  line. 

Over  her  head  the  Chester  wires  hum, 

Under  the  bridge  the  rocking  engines  flash. 

"He's  very  late  this  evening,  but  he'll  come 

And  bring  his  little  packet  full  of  cash 

(Always  he  does),  and  supper's  cracker  hash, 

That  is  his  favourite  food  excepting  bacon. 

They  say  my  boy  was  hanged;  but  they're  mistaken.'* 

And  sometimes  she  will  walk  the  cindery  mile, 
Singing,  as  she  and  Jimmy  used  to  do, 
Singing  "The  parson's  dog  lep  over  a  stile," 
Along  the  path  where  water  lilies  grew. 
The  stars  are  placid  on  the  evening's  blue, 
Burning  like  eyes  so  calm,  so  unafraid, 
On  all  that  God  has  given  and  man  has  made. 

Burning  they  watch,  and  mothlike  owls  come  out, 
The  redbreast  warbles  shrilly  once  and  stops; 
The  homing  cowman  gives  his  dog  a  shout, 
[2471 


THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

The  lamps  are  lighted  in  the  village  shops. 
Silence;  the  last  bird  passes;  in  the  copse 
The  hazels  cross  the  moon,  a  nightjar  spins, 
Dew  wets  the  grass,  the  nightingale  begins. 

Singing  her  crazy  song  the  mother  goes, 
Singing  as  though  her  heart  were  full  of  peace, 
Moths  knock  the  petals  from  the  dropping  rose, 
Stars  make  the  glimmering  pool  a  golden  fleece, 
The  moon  droops  west,  but  still  she  does  not  cease, 
The  little  mice  peep  out  to  hear  her  sing, 
Until  the  inn-man's  cockerel  shakes  his  wing. 

And  in  the  sunny  dawns  of  hot  Julys, 

The  labourers  going  to  meadow  see  her  there. 

Rubbing  the  sleep  out  of  their  heavy  eyes, 

They  lean  upon  the  parapet  to  stare; 

They  see  her  plaiting  basil  in  her  hair, 

Basil,  the  dark  red  wound-wort,  cops  of  clover, 

The  blue  self-heal  and  golden  Jacks  of  Dover.  « 

Dully  they  watch  her,  then  they  turn  to  go 
To  that  high  Shropshire  upland  of  late  hay; 
Her  singing  lingers  with  them  as  they  mow, 
And  many  times  they  try  it,  now  grave,  now  gay, 
Till,  with  full  throat,  over  the  hills  away, 
They  lift  it  clear;  oh,  very  clear  it  towers 
Mixed  with  the  swish  of  many  falling  flowers. 


[248] 


DAUBER 


DAUBER 

I 

Four  bells  were  struck,  the  watch  was  called  on  deck, 
All  work  aboard  was  over  for  the  hour, 
And  some  men  sang  and  others  played  at  check, 
Or  mended  clothes  or  watched  the  sunset  glower. 
The  bursting  west  was  like  an  opening  flower, 
And  one  man  watched  it  till  the  light  was  dim, 
But  no  one  went  across  to  talk  to  him. 

He  was  the  painter  in  that  swift  ship's  crew, 
Lampman  and  painter — tall,  a  slight-built  man, 
Young  for  his  years,  and  not  yet  twenty-two; 
Sickly,  and  not  yet  brown  with  the  sea's  tan. 
Bullied  and  damned  at  since  the  voyage  began, 
"Being  neither  man  nor  seaman  by  his  tally," 
He  bunked  with  the  idlers  just  abaft  the  galley. 

His  work  began  at  five;  he  worked  all  day, 

Keeping  no  watch  and  having  all  night  in. 

His  work  was  what  the  mate  might  care  to  say; 

He  mixed  red  lead  in  many  a  bouilli  tin; 

His  dungarees  were  smeared  with  paraffin. 

"Go  drown  himself"  his  round-house  mates  advised  him, 

And  all  hands  called  him  "Dauber"  and  despised  him. 

Si,  the  apprentice,  stood  beside  the  spar, 
Stripped  to  the  waist,  a  basin  at  his  side, 
Slushing  his  hands  to  get  away  the  tar, 


DAUBER 

And  then  he  washed  himself  and  rinsed  and  dried; 
Towelling  his  face,  hair-towzelled,  eager  eyed, 
He  crossed  the  spar  to  Dauber,  and  there  stood 
Watching  the  gold  of  heaven  turn  to  blood. 

They  stood  there  by  the  rail  while  the  swift  ship 

Tore  on  out  of  the  tropics,  straining  her  sheets, 

Whitening  her  trackway  to  a  milky  strip, 

Dim  with  green  bubbles  and  twisted  water  meets, 

Her  clacking  tackle  tugged  at  pins  and  cleats, 

Her  great  sails  bellied  stiff,  her  great  masts  leaned: 

They  watched  how  the  seas  struck  and  burst  and  greened. 

Si  talked  with  Dauber,  standing  by  the  side. 
"Why  did  you  come  to  sea,  painter?"  he  said. 
"I  want  to  be  a  painter,"  he  replied, 
"And  know  the  sea  and  ships  from  A  to  Z, 
And  paint  great  ships  at  sea  before  I'm  dead; 
Ships  under  skysails  running  down  the  Trade — 
Ships  and  the  sea;  there's  nothing  finer  made. 

"  But  there's  so  much  to  learn,  with  sails  and  ropes, 
And  how  the  sails  look,  full  or  being  furled, 
And  how  the  lights  change  in  the  troughs  and  slopes, 
And  the  sea's  colours  up  and  down  the  world, 
And  how  a  storm  looks  when  the  sprays  are  hurled 
High  as  the  yard  (they  say)  I  want  to  see; 
There's  none  ashore  can  teach  such  things  to  me. 

"And  then  the  men  and  rigging,  and  the  way 
Ships  move,  running  or  beating,  and  the  poise 
At  the  roll's  end,  the  checking  in  the  sway — 

[252] 


DAUBER 

I  want  to  paint  them  perfect,  short  of  the  noise; 
And  then  the  life,  the  half-decks  full  of  boys, 
The  fo'c's'les  with  the  men  there,  dripping  wet: 
I  know  the  subjects  that  I  want  to  get. 

"It's  not  been  done,  the  sea,  not  yet  been  done, 

From  the  inside,  by  one  who  really  knows; 

I'd  give  up  all  if  I  could  be  the  one, 

But  art  comes  dear  the  way  the  money  goes. 

So  I  have  come  to  sea,  and  I  suppose 

Three  years  will  teach  me  all  I  want  to  leam 

And  make  enough  to  keep  me  till  I  earn." 

Even  as  he  spoke  his  busy  pencil  moved, 
Drawing  the  leap  of  water  off  the  side 
Where  the  great  clipper  trampled  iron-hooved, 
Making  the  blue  hills  of  the  sea  divide, 
Shearing  a  glittering  scatter  in  her  stride, 
And  leaping  on  full  tilt  with  all  sails  drawing, 
Proud  as  a  war-horse,  snuffing  battle,  pawing. 

"I  cannot  get  it  yet — not  yet,"  he  said; 

"That  leap  and  light,  and  sudden  change  to  green, 

And  all  the  glittering  from  the  sunset's  red, 

And  the  milky  colours  where  the  bursts  have  been, 

And  then  the  clipper  striding  like  a  queen 

Over  it  all,  all  beauty  to  the  crown. 

I  see  it  all,  I  cannot  put  it  down. 

"It's  hard  not  to  be  able.    There,  look  there! 
I  cannot  get  the  movement  nor  the  light; 
Sometimes  it  almost  makes  a  man  despair 

[2531 


DAUBER 

To  try  and  try  and  never  get  it  right. 

Oh,  if  I  could — oh,  if  I  only  might, 

I  wouldn't  mind  what  hells  I'd  have  to  pass, 

Not  if  the  whole  world  called  me  fool  and  ass." 

Down  sank  the  crimson  sun  into  the  sea, 

The  wind  cut  chill  at  once,  the  west  grew  dun. 

"Out  sidelights!"  called  the  mate.    "Hi,  where  is  he?" 

The  Boatswain  called,  "Out  sidelights,  damn  you!    Run! " 

"He's  always  late  or  lazing,"  murmured  one — 

"The  Dauber,  with  his  sketching."    Soon  the  tints 

Of  red  and  green  passed  on  dark  waterglints. 

Darker  it  grew,  still  darker,  and  the  stars 

Burned  golden,  and  the  fiery  fishes  came. 

The  wire-note  loudened  from  the  straining  spars; 

The  sheet-blocks  clacked  together  always  the  same; 

The  rushing  fishes  streaked  the  seas  with  flame, 

Racing  the  one  speed  noble  as  their  own : 

What  unknown  joy  was  in  those  fish  unknown! 

Just  by  the  round-house  door,  as  it  grew  dark, 
The  Boatswain  caught  the  Dauber  with,  "Now,  you; 
Till  now  I've  spared  you,  damn  you!  now  you  hark: 
I've  just  had  hell  for  what  you  didn't  do; 
I'll  have  you  broke  and  sent  among  the  crew 
If  you  get  me  more  trouble  by  a  particle. 
Don't  you  forget,  you  daubing,  useless  article! 

"You  thing,  you  twice-laid  thing  from  Port  Mahon!" 
Then  came  the  Cook's  "Is  that  the  Dauber  there? 
Why  don't  you  leave  them  stinking  paints  alone? 


DAUBER 

They  stink  the  house  out,  poisoning  all  the  air. 
Just  take  them  out."    "Where  to?"    "I  don't  care  where. 
I  won't  have  stinking  paint  here."    From  their  plates: 
"That's  right;  wet  paint  breeds  fever,"  growled  his  mates. 

He  took  his  still  wet  drawings  from  the  berth 
And  climbed  the  ladder  to  the  deck-house  top; 
Beneath,  the  noisy  half-deck  rang  with  mirth, 
For  two  ship's  boys  were  putting  on  the  strop: 
One,  clambering  up  to  let  the  skylight  drop, 
Saw  him  bend  down  beneath  a  boat  and  lay 
His  drawings  there,  till  all  were  hid  away. 

And  stand  there  silent,  leaning  on  the  boat, 
Watching  the  constellations  rise  and  burn, 
Until  the  beauty  took  him  by  the  throat, 
So  stately  is  their  glittering  overturn; 
Armies  of  marching  eyes,  armies  that  yearn 
With  banners  rising  and  falling,  and  passing  by 
Over  the  empty  silence  of  the  sky. 

The  Dauber  sighed  there  looking  at  the  sails, 
Wind-steadied  arches  leaning  on  the  night, 
The  high  trucks  traced  on  heaven  and  left  no  trails; 
The  moonlight  made  the  topsails  almost  white, 
The  passing  sidelight  seemed  to  drip  green  light. 
And  on  the  clipper  rushed  with  fire-bright  bows; 
He  sighed,  "I'll  never  do't,"  and  left  the  house. 

< 

"Now,"  said  the  reefer,  "up!    Come  Sam;  come,  Si, 
Dauber's  been  hiding  something."    Up  they  slid, 
Treading  on  naked  tiptoe  stealthily 


DAUBER 

To  grope  for  treasure  at  the  long-boat  skid. 
"Drawings!"  said  Sam.    "Is  this  what  Dauber  hid? 
Lord!    I  expected  pudding,  not  this  rot. 
Still,  come,  we'll  have  some  fun  with  what  we've  got." 

They  smeared  the  paint  with  turpentine  until 

They  could  remove  with  mess-clouts  every  trace 

Of  quick  perception  caught  by  patient  skill, 

And  lines  that  had  brought  blood  into  his  face. 

They  wiped  the  pigments  off  and  did  erase, 

With  knives,  all  sticking  clots.    When  they  had  done. 

Under  the  boat  they  laid  them  every  one. 

All  he  had  drawn  since  first  he  came  to  sea, 

His  six  weeks'  leisure  fruits,  they  laid  them  there. 

They  chuckled  then  to  think  how  mad  he'd  be 

Finding  his  paintings  vanished  into  air. 

Eight  bells  were  struck,  and  feet  from  everywhere 

Went  shuffling  aft  to  muster  in  the  dark; 

The  mate's  pipe  glowed  above,  a  dim  red  spark. 

Names  in  the  darkness  passed  and  voices  cried; 
The  red  spark  glowed  and  died,  the  faces  seemed 
As  things  remembered  when  a  brain  has  died, 
To  all  but  high  intenseness  deeply  dreamed. 
Like  hissing  spears  the  fishes'  fire  streamed, 
And  on  the  clipper  rushed  with  tossing  mast, 
A  bath  of  flame  broke  round  her  as  she  passed. 

The  watch  was  set,  the  night  came,  and  the  men 
Hid  from  the  moon  in  shadowed  nooks  to  sleep, 
Bunched  like  the  dead;  still,  like  the  dead,  as  when 
[256] 


DAUBER 

Plague  in  a  city  leaves  none  even  to  weep. 
The  ship's  track  brightened  to  a  mile-broad  sweep; 
The  mate  there  felt  her  pulse,  and  eyed  the  spars: 
South-west  by  south  she  staggered  under  the  stars. 

Down  in  his  bunk  the  Dauber  lay  awake 
Thinking  of  his  unfitness  for  the  sea. 
Each  failure,  each  derision,  each  mistake, 
There  in  the  life  not  made  for  such  as  he; 
A  morning  grim  with  trouble  sure  to  be, 
A  noon  of  pain  from  failure,  and  a  night 
Bitter  with  men's  contemning  and  despite. 

This  in  the  first  beginning,  the  green  leaf, 
Still  in  the  Trades  before  bad  weather  fell; 
What  harvest  would  he  reap  of  hate  and  grief 
When  the  loud  Horn  made  every  life  a  hell? 
When  the  sick  ship  lay  over,  clanging  her  bell, 
And  no  time  came  for  painting  or  for  drawing, 
But  all  hands  fought,  and  icy  death  came  clawing? 

Hell,  he  expected, — hell.    His  eyes  grew  blind; 
The  snoring  from  his  messmates  droned  and  snuffled, 
And  then  a  gush  of  pity  calmed  his  mind. 
The  cruel  torment  of  his  thought  was  muffled, 
Without,  on  deck,  an  old,  old,  seaman  shuffled, 
Humming  his  song,  and  through  the  open  door 
A  moonbeam  moved  and  thrust  along  the  floor. 

The  green  bunk  curtains  moved,  the  brass  rings  clicked, 
The  Cook  cursed  in  his  sleep,  turning  and  turning, 
The  moonbeams'  moving  finger  touched  and  picked, 

[257] 


DAUBER 

And  all  the  stars  in  all  the  sky  were  burning. 
"This  is  the  art  I've  come  for,  and  am  learning, 
The  sea  and  ships  and  men  and  travelling  things. 
It  is  most  proud,  whatever  pain  it  brings." 

He  leaned  upon  his  arm  and  watched  the  light 

Sliding  and  fading  to  the  steady  roll; 

This  he  would  some  day  paint,  the  ship  at  night, 

And  sleeping  seamen  tired  to  the  soul; 

The  space  below  the  bunks  as  black  as  coal, 

Gleams  upon  chests,  upon  the  unlit  lamp, 

The  ranging  door  hook,  and  the  locker  clamp. 

This  he  would  paint,  and  that,  and  all  these  scenes, 

And  proud  ships  carrying  on,  and  men  their  minds, 

And  blues  of  rollers  toppling  into  greens, 

And  shattering  into  white  that  bursts  and  blinds, 

And  scattering  ships  running  erect  like  hinds, 

And  men  in  oilskins  beating  down  a  sail 

High  on  the  yellow  yard,  in  snow,  in  hail. 

With  faces  ducked  down  from  the  slanting  drive 
Of  half-thawed  hail  mixed  with  half-frozen  spray, 
The  roaring  canvas  like  a  thing  alive, 
Shaking  the  mast,  knocking  their  hands  away, 
The  foot-ropes  jerking  to  the  tug  and  sway, 
The  savage  eyes  salt-reddened  at  the  rims, 
And  icicles  on  the  south-wester  brims. 

And  sunnier  scenes  would  grow  under  his  brush, 
The  tropic  dawn  with  all  things  dropping  dew, 
The  darkness  and  the  wonder  and  the  hush, 
[258] 


DAUBER 

The  insensate  grey  before  the  marvel  grew; 
Then  the  veil  lifted  from  the  trembling  blue, 
The  walls  of  sky  burst  in,  the  flower,  the  rose, 
All  the  expanse  of  heaven  a  mind  that  glows. 

He  turned  out  of  his  bunk;  the  Cook  still  tossed, 

One  of  the  other  two  spoke  in  his  sleep. 

A  cockroach  scuttled  where  the  moonbeam  crossed; 

Outside  there  was  the  ship,  the  night,  the  deep. 

"It  is  worth  while,"  the  youth  said;  "I  will  keep 

To  my  resolve,  I'll  learn  to  paint  all  this. 

My  Lord,  my  God,  how  beautiful  it  is!" 

Outside  was  the  ship's  rush  to  the  wind's  hurry, 

A  resonant  wire-hum  from  every  rope, 

The  broadening  bow-wash  in  a  fiery  flurry, 

The  leaning  masts  in  their  majestic  slope, 

And  all  things  strange  with  moonlight:  filled  with  hope 

By  all  that  beauty  going  as  man  bade, 

He  turned  and  slept  in  peace.    Eight  bells  were  made. 


II 

Next  day  was  Sunday,  his  free  painting  day, 
While  the  fine  weather  held,  from  eight  till  eight. 
He  rose  when  called  at  five,  and  did  array 
The  round-house  gear,  and  set  the  kit-bags  straight; 
Then  kneeling  down,  like  housemaid  at  a  grate, 
He  scrubbed  the  deck  with  sand  until  his  knees 
Were  blue  with  dye  from  his  wet  dungarees. 
[259] 


DAUBER 

\ 

Soon  all  was  clean,  his  Sunday  tasks  were  done; 

His  day  was  clear  for  painting  as  he  chose. 

The  wetted  decks  were  drying  in  the  sun, 

The  men  coiled  up,  or  swabbed,  or  sought  repose. 

The  drifts  of  silver  arrows  fell  and  rose 

As  flying  fish  took  wing;  the  breakfast  passed, 

Wasting  good  time,  but  he  was  free  at  last. 

Free  for  two  hours  and  more  to  tingle  deep, 
Catching  a  likeness  in  a  line  or  tint, 
The  canvas  running  up  in  a  proud  sweep, 
Wind-wrinkled  at  the  clews,  and  white  like  lint, 
The  glittering  of  the  blue  waves  into  glint; 
Free  to  attempt  it  all,  the  proud  ship's  pawings, 
The  sea,  the  sky — he  went  to  fetch  his  drawings. 

Up  to  the  deck-house  top  he  quickly  climbed, 
He  stooped  to  find  them  underneath  the  boat. 
He  found  them  all  obliterated,  slimed, 
Blotted,  erased,  gone  from  him  line  and  note. 
They  were  all  spoiled :  a  lump  came  in  his  throat, 
Being  vain  of  his  attempts,  and  tender  skinned — 
Beneath  the  skylight  watching  reefers  grinned. 

He  clambered  down,  holding  the  ruined  things. 
"Bosun,"  he  called,  "look  here,  did  you  do  these: 
Wipe  off  my  paints  and  cut  them  into  strings, 
And  smear  them  till  you  can't  tell  chalk  from  cheese? 
Don't  stare,  but  did  you  do  it?    Answer,  please." 
The  Bosun  turned:  "I'll  give  you  a  thick  ear! 
Do  it!    I  didn't.    Get  to  hell  from  here! 
[260] 


DAUBER 

"I  touch  your  stinking  daubs?    The  Dauber's  daft." 
A  crowd  was  gathering  now  to  hear  the  fun; 
The  reefers  tumbled  out,  the  men  laid  aft, 
The  Cook  blinked,  cleaning  a  mess  kid  in  the  sun. 
"What's  up  with  Dauber  now?"  said  everyone. 
"Someone  has  spoiled  my  drawings — look  at  this!" 
"Well,  that's  a  dirty  trick,  by  God,  it  is!" 

"It  is,"  said  Sam,  "a  low-down  dirty  trick, 

To  spoil  a  fellow's  work  in  such  a  way, 

And  if  you  catch  him,  Dauber,  punch  him  sick, 

For  he  deserves  it,  be  he  who  he  may." 

A  seaman  shook  his  old  head  wise  and  grey. 

"It  seems  to  me,"  he  said,  "who  ain't  no  judge, 

Them  drawings  look  much  better  now  they're  smudge." 

"Where  were  they,  Dauber?    On  the  deck-house?    Where?" 

"Under  the  long-boat,  in  a  secret  place." 

"The  blackguard  must  have  seen  you  put  them  there. 

He  is  a  swine!    I  tell  him  to  his  face: 

I  didn't  think  we'd  anyone  so  base." 

"Nor  I,"  said  Dauber.    "There  was  six  weeks'  time 

Just  wasted  in  these  drawings:  it's  a  crime!" 

"Well,  don't  you  say  we  did  it,"  growled  his  mates, 
"And  as  for  crime,  be  damned!  the  things  were  smears — 
Best  overboard,  like  you,  with  shot  for  weights; 
Thank  God  they're  gone,  and  now  go  shake  your  ears." 
The  Dauber  listened,  very  near  to  tears. 
"Dauber,  if  I  were  you,"  said  Sam  again, 
"I'd  aft,  and  see  the  Captain  and  complain." 

[261] 


DAUBER 

A  sigh  came  from  the  assembled  seamen  there. 
Would  he  be  such  a  fool  for  their  delight 
As  go  to  tell  the  Captain?    Would  he  dare? 
And  would  the  thunder  roar,  the  lightning  smite? 
There  was  the  Captain  come  to  take  a  sight, 
Handling  his  sextant  by  the  chart-house  aft. 
The  Dauber  turned,  the  seamen  thought  him  daft. 

The  Captain  took  his  sights — a  mate  below 

Noted  the  times;  they  shouted  to  each  other, 

The  Captain  quick  with  "Stop,"  the  answer  slow, 

Repeating  slowly  one  height  then  another. 

The  swooping  clipper  stumbled  through  the  smother, 

The  ladder  brasses  in  the  sunlight  burned, 

The  Dauber  waited  till  the  Captain  turned. 

There  stood  the  Dauber,  humbled  to  the  bone, 

Waiting  to  speak.    The  Captain  let  him  wait, 

Glanced  at  the  course,  and  called  in  even  tone, 

"What  is  the  man  there  wanting,  Mr.  Mate?" 

The  logship  clattered  on  the  grating  straight, 

The  reel  rolled  to  the  scuppers  with  a  clatter, 

The  Mate  came  grim:  "Well,  Dauber,  what's  the  matter?" 

"Please,  sir,  they  spoiled  my  drawings."    "Who  did?"    They." 
"Who's  they?"     "I  don't  quite  know,  sir."     "Don't  quite 

know,  sir? 

Then  why  are  you  aft  to  talk  about  it,  hey? 
Whom  d'you  complain  of?"    "No  one."    "No  one?"    "No, 

sir." 

"Well,  then,  go  forward  till  you've  found  them.    Go,  sir. 

[262] 


DAUBER 

If  you  complain  of  someone,  then  I'll  see. 

Now  get  to  hell!  and  don't  come  bothering  me." 

"  But,  sir,  they  washed  them  off,  and  some  they  cut. 
Look  here,  sir,  how  they  spoiled  them."    "Never  mind. 
Go  shove  your  head  inside  the  scuttle  butt, 
And  that  will  make  you  cooler.    You  will  find 
Nothing  like  water  when  you're  mad  and  blind. 
Where  were  the  drawings?  in  your  chest,  or  where?" 
"Under  the  long-boat,  sir;    I  put  them  there." 

"Under  the  long-boat,  hey?    Now  mind  your  tip. 

I'll  have  the  skids  kept  clear  with  nothing  round  them; 

The  long-boat  ain't  a  store  in  this  here  ship. 

Lucky  for  you  it  wasn't  I  who  found  them. 

If  I  had  seen  them,  Dauber,  I'd  have  drowned  them. 

Now  you  be  warned  by  this.    I  tell  you  plain — 

Don't  stow  your  brass-rags  under  boats  again. 

"Go  forward  to  your  berth."    The  Dauber  turned. 
The  listeners  down  below  them  winked  and  smiled, 
Knowing  how  red  the  Dauber's  temples  burned, 
Having  lost  the  case  about  his  only  child. 
His  work  was  done  to  nothing  and  defiled, 
And  there  was  no  redress:  the  Captain's  voice 
Spoke,  and  called  "Painter,"  making  him  rejoice. 

The  Captain  and  the  Mate  conversed  together. 
"Drawings,  you  tell  me,  Mister?"    "Yes,  sir;  views: 
Wiped  off  with  turps,  I  gather  that's  his  blether. 
He  says  they're  things  he  can't  afford  to  lose. 
He's  Dick,  who  came  to  sea  in  dancing  shoes, 

[263] 


DAUBER 

And  found  the  dance  a  bear  dance.    They  were  hidden 
Under  the  long-boat's  chocks,  which  I've  forbidden." 

"Wiped  off  with  turps?"    The  Captain  sucked  his  lip. 

"Who  did  it,  Mister?"    "Reefers,  I  suppose; 

Them  devils  do  the  most  pranks  in  a  ship; 

The  round-house  might  have  done  it,  Cook  or  Bose." 

"I  can't  take  notice  of  it  till  he  knows. 

How  does  he  do  his  work?"    "Well,  no  offence; 

He  tries;  he  does  his  best.    He's  got  no  sense." 

"Painter,"  the  Captain  called;  the  Dauber  came. 
"What's  all  this  talk  of  drawings?    What's  the  matter?" 
"They  spoiled  my  drawings,  sir."    "Well,  who's  to  blame? 
The  long-boat's  there  for  no  one  to  get  at  her; 
You  broke  the  rules,  and  if  you  choose  to  scatter 
Gear  up  and  down  where  it's  no  right  to  be, 
And  suffer  as  result,  don't  come  to  me. 

"Your  place  is  in  the  round-house,  and  your  gear 
Belongs  where  you  belong.    Who  spoiled  your  things? 
Find  out  who  spoiled  your  things  and  fetch  him  here." 
"But,  sir,  they  cut  the  canvas  into  strings." 
"I  want  no  argument  nor  questionings. 
Go  back  where  you  belong  and  say  no  more, 
And  please  remember  that  you're  not  on  shore." 

The  Dauber  touched  his  brow  and  slunk  away — 
They  eyed  his  going  with  a  bitter  eye. 
"Dauber,"  said  Sam,  "what  did  the  Captain  say?" 
The  Dauber  drooped  his  head  without  reply. 
"Go  forward,  Dauber,  and  enjoy  your  cry." 

[264] 


DAUBER 

The  Mate  limped  to  the  rail;  like  little  feet 
Over  his  head  the  drumming  reef-points  beat. 

The  Dauber  reached  the  berth  and  entered  in. 
Much  mockery  followed  after  as  he  went, 
And  each  face  seemed  to  greet  him  with  the  grin 
Of  hounds  hot  following  on  a  creature  spent. 
"Aren't  you  a  fool?"  each  mocking  visage  meant. 
"Who  did  it,  Dauber?    What  did  Captain  say? 
It  is  a  crime,  and  there'll  be  hell  to  pay." 

He  bowed  his  head,  the  house  was  full  of  smoke; 
The  Sails  was  pointing  shackles  on  his  chest. 
"Lord,  Dauber,  be  a  man  and  take  a  joke" — 
He  puffed  his  pipe — "and  let  the  matter  rest. 
Spit  brown,  my  son,  and  get  a  hairy  breast; 
Get  shoulders  on  you  at  the  crojick  braces, 
And  let  this  painting  business  go  to  blazes. 

"What  good  can  painting  do  to  anyone? 

I  don't  say  never  do  it;  far  from  that — 

No  harm  in  sometimes  painting  just  for  fun. 

Keep  it  for  fun,  and  stick  to  what  you're  at. 

Your  job's  to  fill  your  bones  up  and  get  fat; 

Rib  up  like  Barney's  bull,  and  thick  your  neck. 

Throw  paints  to  hell,  boy;  you  belong  on  deck." 

"That's  right,"  said  Chips;  "it's  down-right  good  advice. 
Painting's  no  good;  what  good  can  painting  do 
Up  on  a  lower  topsail  stiff  with  ice, 
With  all  your  little  fish-hooks  frozen  blue? 
Painting  won't  help  you  at  the  weather  clew, 

[265] 


DAUBER 

Nor  pass  your  gaskets  for  you,  nor  make  sail. 
Painting's  a  balmy  job  not  worth  a  nail." 

The  Dauber  did  not  answer;  time  was  passing. 

He  pulled  his  easel  out,  his  paints,  his  stool. 

The  wind  was  dropping,  and  the  sea  was  glassing — 

New  realms  of  beauty  waited  for  his  rule; 

The  draught  out  of  the  crojick  kept  him  cool. 

He  sat  to  paint,  alone  and  melancholy. 

"No  turning  fools,"  the  Chips  said,  "from  their  folly." 

He  dipped  his  brush  and  tried  to  fix  a  line, 
And  then  came  peace,  and  gentle  beauty  came, 
Turning  his  spirit's  water  into  wine, 
Lightening  his  darkness  with  a  touch  of  flame: 
O,  joy  of  trying  for  beauty,  ever  the  same, 
You  never  fail,  your  comforts  never  end; 
O,  balm  of  this  world's  way;  O,  perfect  friend! 

Ill 

They  lost  the  Trades  soon  after;  then  came  calm, 
Light  little  gusts  and  rain,  which  soon  increased 
To  glorious  northers  shouting  out  a  psalm 
At  seeing  the  bright  blue  water  silver  fleeced; 
Hornwards  she  rushed,  trampling  the  seas  to  yeast. 
There  fell  a  rain-squall  in  a  blind  day's  end 
When  for  an  hour  the  Dauber  found  a  friend. 

Out  of  the  rain  the  voices  called  and  passed, 
The  stay-sails  flogged,  the  tackle  yanked  and  shook. 
Inside  the  harness-room  a  lantern  cast 

[266! 


DAUBER 

Light  and  wild  shadows  as  it  ranged  its  hook. 
The  watch  on  deck  was  gathered  in  the  nook, 
They  had  taken  shelter  in  that  secret  place, 
Wild  light  gave  wild  emotions  to  each  face. 

One  beat  the  beef-cask,  and  the  others  sang 
A  song  that  had  brought  anchors  out  of  seas 
In  ports  where  bells  of  Christians  never  rang, 
Nor  any  sea  mark  blazed  among  the  trees. 
By  forlorn  swamps,  in  ice,  by  windy  keys, 
That  song  had  sounded;  now  it  shook  the  air 
From  these  eight  wanderers  brought  together  there. 

Under  the  poop-break,  sheltering  from  the  rain, 
The  Dauber  sketched  some  likeness  of  the  room, 
A  note  to  be  a  prompting  to  his  brain, 
A  spark  to  make  old  memory  reillume. 
"Dauber,"  said  someone  near  him  in  the  gloom, 
"How  goes  it,  Dauber?"    It  was  reefer  Si. 
"There's  not  much  use  in  trying  to  keep  dry." 

They  sat  upon  the  sail-room  doorway  coaming, 

The  lad  held  forth  like  youth,  the  Dauber  listened 

To  how  the  boy  had  had  a  taste  for  roaming, 

And  what  the  sea  is  said  to  be  and  isn't. 

Where  the  dim  lamplight  fell  the  wet  deck  glistened. 

Si  said  the  Horn  was  still  some  weeks  away, 

"But  tell  me,  Dauber,  where  d'you  hail  from?    Eh?" 

The  rain  blew  past  and  let  the  stars  appear; 
The  seas  grew  larger  as  the  moonlight  grew; 
For  half  an  hour  the  ring  of  heaven  was  clear, 

[267] 


DAUBER 

Dusty  with  moonlight,  grey  rather  than  blue; 
In  that  great  moon  the  showing  stars  were  few. 
The  sleepy  time-boy's  feet  passed  overhead. 
"I  come  from  out  past  Gloucester,"  Dauber  said; 

"Not  far  from  Pauntley,  if  you  know  those  parts; 
The  place  is  Spital  Farm,  near  Silver  Hill, 
Above  a  trap-hatch  where  a  mill-stream  starts. 
We  had  the  mill  once,  but  we've  stopped  the  mill; 
My  dad  and  sister  keep  the  farm  on  still. 
We're  only  tenants,  but  we've  rented  there, 
Father  and  son,  for  over  eighty  year. 

"Father  has  worked  the  farm  since  grandfer  went; 
It  means  the  world  to  him;  I  can't  think  why. 
They  bleed  him  to  the  last  half-crown  for  rent, 
And  this  and  that  have  almost  milked  him  dry. 
The  land's  all  starved;  if  he'd  put  money  by, 
And  corn  was  up,  and  rent  was  down  two-thirds.  . 
But  then  they  aren't,  so  what's  the  use  of  words. 

"Yet  still  he  couldn't  bear  to  see  it  pass 
To  strangers,  or  to  think  a  time  would  come 
When  other  men  than  us  would  mow  the  grass, 
And  other  names  than  ours  have  the  home. 
Some  sorrows  come  from  evil  thought,  but  some 
Comes  when  two  men  are  near,  and  both  are  blind 
To  what  is  generous  in  the  other's  mind. 

"I  was  the  only  boy,  and  father  thought 

I'd  farm  the  Spital  after  he  was  dead, 

And  many  a  time  he  took  me  out  and  taught 

[268] 


DAUBER 

About  manures  and  seed-corn  white  and  red, 
And  soils  and  hops,  but  I'd  an  empty  head; 
Harvest  or  seed,  I  would  not  do  a  turn — 
I  loathed  the  farm,  I  didn't  want  to  learn. 

"He  did  not  mind  at  first,  he  thought  it  youth 
Feeling  the  collar,  and  that  I  should  change. 
Then  time  gave  him  some  inklings  of  the  truth, 
And  that  I  loathed  the  farm,  and  wished  to  range. 
Truth  to  a  man  of  fifty's  always  strange; 
It  was  most  strange  and  terrible  to  him 
That  I,  his  heir,  should  be  the  devil's  limb. 

"Yet  still  he  hoped  the  Lord  might  change  my  mind. 

I'd  see  him  bridle-in  his  wrath  and  hate, 

And  almost  break  my  heart  he  was  so  kind, 

Biting  his  lips  sore  with  resolve  to  wait. 

And  then  I'd  try  awhile;  but  it  was  Fate: 

I  didn't  want  to  learn;  the  farm  to  me 

Was  mire  and  hopeless  work  and  misery. 

"Though  there  were  things  I  loved  about  it,  too — 

The  beasts,  the  apple-trees,  and  going  haying. 

And  then  I  tried;  but  no,  it  wouldn't  do, 

The  farm  was  prison,  and  my  thoughts  were  straying. 

And  there'd  come  father,  with  his  grey  head,  praying, 

'  O,  my  dear  son,  don't  let  the  Spital  pass; 

It's  my  old  home,  boy,  where  your  grandfer  was. 

"'And  now  you  won't  learn  farming;  you  don't  care. 
The  old  home's  nought  to  you.    I've  tried  to  teach  you; 
I've  begged  Almighty  God,  boy,  all  I  dare, 

[269] 


DAUBER 

To  use  His  hand  if  word  of  mine  won't  reach  you. 
Boy,  for  your  granfer's  sake  I  do  beseech  you, 
Don't  let  the  Spital  pass  to  strangers.    Squire 
Has  said  he'd  give  it  you  if  we  require. 

"'Your  mother  used  to  walk  here,  boy,  with  me; 
It  was  her  favourite  walk  down  to  the  mill; 
And  there  we'd  talk  how  little  death  would  be, 
Knowing  our  work  was  going  on  here  still. 
You've  got  the  brains,  you  only  want  the  will — 
Don't  disappoint  your  mother  and  your  father. 
I'll  give  you  time  to  travel,  if  you'd  rather/ 

"But,  no,  I'd  wander  up  the  brooks  to  read. 
Then  sister  Jane  would  start  with  nagging  tongue, 
Saying  my  sin  made  father's  heart  to  bleed, 
And  how  she  feared  she'd  live  to  see  me  hung. 
And  then  she'd  read  me  bits  from  Dr.  Young. 
And  when  we  three  would  sit  to  supper,  Jane 
Would  fillip  dad  till  dad  began  again. 

' '  I've  been  here  all  my  life,  boy.    I  was  born 
Up  in  the  room  above — looks  on  the  mead. 
I  never  thought  you'd  cockle  my  clean  corn, 
And  leave  the  old  home  to  a  stranger's  seed. 
Father  and  I  have  made  here  'thout  a  weed: 
We've  give  our  lives  to  make  that.    Eighty  years. 
And  now  I  go  down  to  the  grave  in  tears/ 

"And  then  I'd  get  ashamed  and  take  off  coat,. 
And  work  maybe  a  week,  ploughing  and  sowing 
And  then  I'd  creep  away  and  sail  my  boat, 
[270] 


DAUBER 

Or  watch  the  water  when  the  mill  was  going. 
That's  my  delight — to  be  near  water  flowing, 
Dabbling  or  sailing  boats  or  jumping  stanks, 
Or  finding  moorhens'  nests  along  the  banks. 

"And  one  day  father  found  a  ship  I'd  built; 

He  took  the  cart-whip  to  me  over  that, 

And  I,  half  mad  with  pain,  and  sick  with  guilt, 

Went  up  and  hid  in  what  we  called  the  flat, 

A  dusty  hole  given  over  to  the  cat. 

She  kittened  there;  the  kittens  had  worn  paths 

Among  the  cobwebs,  dust,  and  broken  laths. 

"And  putting  down  my  hand  between  the  beams 
I  felt  a  leathery  thing,  and  pulled  it  clear: 
A  book  with  white  cocoons  stuck  in  the  seams. 
Where  spiders  had  had  nests  for  many  a  year. 
It  was  my  mother's  sketch-book;  hid,  I  fear, 
Lest  dad  should  ever  see  it.    Mother's  life 
Was  not  her  own  while  she  was  father's  wife. 

"There  were  her  drawings,  dated,  pencilled  faint. 
March  was  the  last  one,  eighteen  eighty-three, 
Unfinished  that,  for  tears  had  smeared  the  paint. 
The  rest  was  landscape,  not  yet  brought  to  be. 
That  was  a  holy  afternoon  to  me; 
That  book  a  sacred  book;  the  flat  a  place 
Where  I  could  meet  my  mother  face  to  face. 

"She  had  found  peace  of  spirit,  mother  had, 
Drawing  the  landscape  from  the  attic  there — 
Heart-broken,  often,  after  rows  with  dad, 
[271] 


DAUBER 

Hid  like  a  wild  thing  in  a  secret  lair. 

That  rotting  sketch-book  showed  me  how  and  where 

I,  too,  could  get  away;  and  then  I  knew 

That  drawing  was  the  work  I  longed  to  do. 

"Drawing  became  my  life.    I  drew,  I  toiled, 

And  every  penny  I  could  get  I  spent 

On  paints  and  artist's  matters,  which  I  spoiled 

Up  in  the  attic  to  my  heart's  content, 

Till  one  day  father  asked  me  what  I  meant; 

The  time  had  come,  he  said,  to  make  an  end. 

Now  it  must  finish:  what  did  I  intend? 

"Either  I  took  to  farming,  like  his  son, 

In  which  case  he  would  teach  me,  early  and  late 

(Provided  that  my  daubing  mood  was  done), 

Or  I  must  go:  it  must  be  settled  straight. 

If  I  refused  to  farm,  there  was  the  gate. 

I  was  to  choose,  his  patience  was  all  gone, 

The  present  state  of  things  could  not  go  on. 

"Sister  was  there;  she  eyed  me  while  he  spoke. 
The  kitchen  clock  ran  down  and  struck  the  hour, 
And  something  told  me  father's  heart  was  broke, 
For  all  he  stood  so  set  and  looked  so  sour. 
Jane  took  a  duster,  and  began  to  scour 
A  pewter  on  the  dresser;  she  was  crying. 
I  stood  stock  still  a  long  time,  not  replying. 

"Dad  waited,  then  he  snorted  and  turned  round. 
'  Well,  think  of  it,'  he  said.    He  left  the  room, 
His  boots  went  clop  along  the  stony  ground 
[272! 


DAUBER 

Out  to  the  orchard  and  the  apple-bloom. 
A  cloud  came  past  the  sun  and  made  a  gloom; 
I  swallowed  with  dry  lips,  then  sister  turned. 
She  was  dead  white  but  for  her  eyes  that  burned. 

"'  You're  breaking  father's  heart,  Joe,'  she  began; 

'  It's  not  as  if '  she  checked,  in  too  much  pain. 

'O,  Joe,  don't  help  to  kill  so  fine  a  man; 
You're  giving  him  our  mother  over  again. 
It's  wearing  him  to  death,  Joe,  heart  and  brain; 
You  know  what  store  he  sets  on  leaving  this 
To  (it's  too  cruel) — to  a  son  of  his. 

'"Yet  you  go  painting  all  the  day.    0,  Joe, 
Couldn't  you  make  an  effort?    Can't  you  see 
What  folly  it  is  of  yours  ?    It's  not  as  though 
You  are  a  genius  or  could  ever  be. 
O,  Joe,  for  father's  sake,  if  not  for  me, 
Give  up  this  craze  for  painting,  and  be  wise 
And  work  with  father,  where  your  duty  lies.* 

"'It  goes  too  deep,'  I  said;  'I  loathe  the  farm: 
I  couldn't  help,  even  if  I'd  the  mind. 
Even  if  I  helped,  I'd  only  do  him  harm; 
Father  would  see  it,  if  he  were  not  blind. 
I  was  not  built  to  farm,  as  he  would  find. 
O,  Jane,  its  bitter  hard  to  stand  alone 
And  spoil  my  father's  life  or  spoil  my  own.' 

"'Spoil  both,'  she  said,  'the  way  you're  shaping  now. 
You're  only  a  boy  not  knowing  your  own  good. 
Where  will  you  go,  suppose  you  leave  here?    How 
[273! 


DAUBER 

Do  you  propose  to  earn  your  daily  food  ? 

Draw?    Daub  the  pavements?    There's  a  feckless  brood 

Goes  to  the  devil  daily,  Joe,  in  cities 

Only  from  thinking  how  divine  their  wit  is. 

'"Clouds  are  they,  without  water,  carried  away. 
And  you'll  be  one  of  them,  the  way  you're  going, 
Daubing  at  silly  pictures  all  the  day, 
And  praised  by  silly  fools  who' re  always  blowing. 
And  you  choose  this  when  you  might  go  a-sowing, 
Casting  the  good  corn  into  chosen  mould 
That  shall  in  time  bring  forth  a  hundred-fold.' 

"So  we  went  on,  but  in  the  end  it  ended. 

I  felt  I'd  done  a  murder;  I  felt  sick. 

There's  much  in  human  minds  cannot  be  mended, 

And  that,  not  I,  played  dad  a  cruel  trick. 

There  was  one  mercy:  that  it  ended  quick. 

I  went  to  join  my  mother's  brother:  he 

Lived  down  the  Severn.    He  was  kind  to  me. 

"And  there  I  learned  house-painting  for  a  living. 
I'd  have  been  happy  there,  but  that  I  knew 
I'd  sinned  before  my  father  past  forgiving, 
And  that  they  sat  at  home,  that  silent  two, 
Wearing  the  fire  out  and  the  evening  through, 
Silent,  defeated,  broken,  in  despair, 
My  plate  unset,  my  name  gone,  and  my  chair. 

"I  saw  all  that;  and  sister  Jane  came  white — 
White  as  a  ghost,  with  fiery,  weeping  eyes. 
I  saw  her  all  day  long  and  half  the  night, 

[274! 


DAUBER 

Bitter  as  gall,  and  passionate  and  wise. 

'Joe,  you  have  killed  your  father:  there  he  lies. 

You  have  done  your  work — you  with  our  mother's  ways.' 

She  said  it  plain,  and  then  her  eyes  would  blaze. 

"And  then  one  day  I  had  a  job  to  do 
Down  below  bridge,  by  where  the  docks  begin, 
And  there  I  saw  a  clipper  towing  through, 
Up  from  the  sea  that  morning,  entering  in. 
Raked  to  the  nines  she  was,  lofty  and  thin, 
Her  ensign  ruffling  red,  her  bunts  in  pile, 
Beauty  and  strength  together,  wonder,  style. 

"She  docked  close  to  the  gates,  and  there  she  lay 

Over  the  water  from  me,  well  in  sight; 

And  as  I  worked  I  watched  her  all  the  day, 

Finding  her  beauty  ever  fresh  delight. 

Her  house-flag  was  bright  green  with  strips  of  white; 

High  in  the  sunny  air  it  rose  to  shake 

Above  the  skysail  poles'  most  splendid  rake. 

"And  when  I  felt  unhappy  I  would  look 

Over  the  river  at  her;  and  her  pride, 

So  calm,  so  quiet,  came  as  a  rebuke 

To  half  the  passionate  pathways  which  I  tried; 

And  though  the  autumn  ran  its  term  and  died, 

And  winter  fell  and  cold  December  came, 

She  was  still  splendid  there,  and  still  the  same. 

"Then  on  a  day  she  sailed;  but  when  she  went 
My  mind  was  clear  on  what  I  had  to  try: 
To  see  the  sea  and  ships,  and  what  they  meant, 


DAUBER 

That  was  the  thing  I  longed  to  do;  so  I 
Drew  and  worked  hard,  and  studied  and  put  by, 
And  thought  of  nothing  else  but  that  one  end, 
But  let  all  else  go  hang — love,  money,  friend. 

"And  now  I've  shipped  as  Dauber  I've  begun. 
It  was  hard  work  to  find  a  dauber's  berth; 
I  hadn't  any  friends  to  find  me  one, 
Only  my  skill,  for  what  it  may  be  worth; 
But  I'm  at  sea  now,  going  about  the  earth, 
And  when  the  ship's  paid  off,  when  we  return, 
I'll  join  some  Paris  studio  and  learn." 

He  stopped,  the  air  came  moist,  Si  did  not  speak; 

The  Dauber  turned  his  eyes  to  where  he  sat, 

Pressing  the  sail-room  hinges  with  his  cheeek, 

His  face  half  covered  with  a  dropping  hat. 

Huge  dewdrops  from  the  stay-sails  dropped  and  spat. 

Si  did  not  stir,  the  Dauber  touched  his  sleeve; 

A  little  birdlike  noise  came  from  a  sheave. 

Si  was  asleep,  sleeping  a  calm  deep  sleep, 

Still  as  a  warden  of  the  Egyptian  dead 

In  some  old  haunted  temple  buried  deep 

Under  the  desert  sand,  sterile  and  red. 

The  Dauber  shook  his  arm;  Si  jumped  and  said, 

"Good  yarn,  I  swear  1    I  say,  you  have  a  brain — 

Was  that  eight  bells  that  went?"    He  slept  again. 

Then  waking  up,  "I've  had  a  nap,"  he  cried. 

"Was  that  one  bell?    What,  Dauber,  you  still  here?" 

"Si  there?"  the  Mate's  voice  called.    "Sir,"  he  replied. 


DAUBER 

The  order  made  the  lad's  thick  vision  clear; 
A  something  in  the  Mate's  voice  made  him  fear. 
"Si,"  said  the  Mate,  "I  hear  you've  made  a  friend — 
Dauber,  in  short.    That  friendship's  got  to  end. 

"You're  a  young    gentleman.    Your  place  aboard 
Is  with  the  gentlemen  abaft  the  mast. 
You're  learning  to  command;  you  can't  afford 
To  yarn  with  any  man.    But  there  ...  it  s  past. 
You've  done  it  once;  let  this  time  be  the  last. 
The  Dauber's  place  is  forward.    Do  it  again, 
I'll  put  you  bunking  forward  with  the  men. 

"Dismiss."    Si  went,  but  Sam,  beside  the  Mate, 
Timekeeper  there,  walked  with  him  to  the  rail 
And  whispered  him  the  menace  of  "You  wait" — 
Words  which  have  turned  full  many  a  reefer  pale. 
The  watch  was  changed;  the  watch  on  deck  trimmed 
Sam,  going  below,  called  all  the  reefers  down, 
Sat  in  his  bunk  and  eyed  them  with  a  frown. 

"Si  here,"  he  said,  "has  soiled  the  half-decks'  name 

Talking  to  Dauber — Dauber,  the  ship's  clout. 

A  reefer  takes  the  Dauber  for  a  flame, 

The  half-deck  take  the  round-house  walking  out. 

He's  soiled  the  half-deck's  honour;  now,  no  doubt, 

The  Bosun  and  his  mates  will  come  here  sneaking, 

Asking  for  smokes,  or  blocking  gangways  speaking. 

"I'm  not  a  vain  man,  given  to  blow  or  boast; 
I'm  not  a  proud  man,  but  I  truly  feel 
That  while  I've  bossed  this  mess  and  ruled  this  roast 

[2771 


DAUBER 

I've  kept  this  hooker's  half-deck  damned  genteel. 
Si  must  ask  pardon,  or  be  made  to  squeal. 
Down  on  your  knees,  dog;  them  we  love  we  chasten. 
Jao,  pasea,  my  son — in  English,  Hasten." 

Si  begged  for  pardon,  meekly  kneeling  down 
Before  the  reefer's  mess  assembled  grim. 
The  lamp  above  them  smoked  the  glass  all  brown; 
Beyond  the  door  the  dripping  sails  were  dim. 
The  Dauber  passed  the  door;  none  spoke  to  him. 
He  sought  his  berth  and  slept,  or,  waking,  heard 
Rain  on  the  deck-house — rain,  no  other  word. 


IV 

Out  of  the  air  a  time  of  quiet  came, 
Calm  fell  upon  the  heaven  like  a  drouth; 
The  brass  sky  watched  the  brassy  water  flame. 
Drowsed  as  a  snail  the  clipper  loitered  south 
Slowly,  with  no  white  bone  across  her  mouth; 
No  rushing  glory,  like  a  queen  made  bold, 
The  Dauber  strove  to  draw  her  as  she  rolled. 


There  the  four  leaning  spires  of  canvas  rose, 
Royals  and  skysails  lifting,  gently  lifting, 
White  like  the  brightness  that  a  great  fish  blows 
When  billows  are  at  peace  and  ships  are  drifting; 
With  mighty  jerks  that  set  the  shadows  shifting, 
The  courses  tugged  their  tethers:  a  blue  haze 
Drifted  like  ghosts  of  flocks  come  down  to  graze. 


DAUBER 

There  the  great  skyline  made  her  perfect  round, 

Notched  now  and  then  by  the  sea's  deeper  blue; 

A  smoke-smutch  marked  a  steamer  homeward  bound, 

The  haze  wrought  all  things  to  intenser  hue. 

In  tingling  impotence  the  Dauber  drew 

As  all  men  draw,  keen  to  the  shaken  soul 

To  give  a  hint  that  might  suggest  the  whole. 

A  naked  seaman  washing  a  red  shirt 

Sat  at  a  tub  whistling  between  his  teeth; 

Complaining  blocks  quavered  like  something  hurt. 

A  sailor  cut  an  old  boot  for  a  sheath, 

The  ship  bowed  to  her  shadow-ship  beneath, 

And  little  splash  of  spray  came  at  the  roll 

On  to  the  deck-planks  from  the  scupper-hole. 

He  watched  it,  painting  patiently,  as  paints, 

With  eyes  that  pierce  behind  the  blue  sky's  veil, 

The  Benedictine  in  a  Book  of  Saints 

Watching  the  passing  of  the  Holy  Grail; 

The  green  dish  dripping  blood,  the  trump,  the  hail, 

The  spears  that  pass,  the  memory  and  the  passion, 

The  beauty  moving  under  this  world's  fashion. 

But  as  he  painted,  slowly,  man  by  man, 
The  seamen  gathered  near;  the  Bosun  stood 
Behind  him,  jeering;  then  the  Sails  began 
Sniggering  with  comment  that  it  was  not  good. 
Chips  flicked  his  sketch  with  little  scraps  of  wood, 
Saying,  "That  hit  the  top-knot,"  every  time. 
Cook  mocked,  "My  lovely  drawings;  it's  a  crime." 
[2791 


DAUBER 

Slowly  the  men  came  nearer,  till  a  crowd 
Stood  at  his  elbow,  muttering  as  he  drew; 
The  Bosun,  turning  to  them,  spoke  aloud, 
"This  is  the  ship  that  never  got  there.    You 
Look  at  her  here,  what  Dauber's  trying  to  do. 
Look  at  her!  lummy,  like  a  Christmas-tree. 
That  thing's  a  ship;  he  calls  this  painting.    See?" 

Seeing  the  crowd,  the  Mate  came  forward;  then 
"Sir,"  said  the  Bosun,  "come  and  see  the  sight! 
Here's  Dauber  makes  a  circus  for  the  men. 
He  calls  this  thing  a  ship — this  hell's  delight!" 
"Man,"  said  the  Mate,  "you'll  never  get  her  right 
Daubing  like  that.    Look  here!"    He  took  a  brush. 
"Now  Dauber,  watch;  I'll  put  you  to  the  blush. 

"  Look  here.    Look  there.    Now  watch  this  ship  of  mine." 

He  drew  her  swiftly  from  a  memory  stored. 

"God,  sir,"  the  Bosun  said,  "you  do  her  fine!" 

"Ay,"  said  the  Mate,  "I  do  so,  by  the  Lord! 

I'll  paint  a  ship  with  any  man  aboard." 

They  hung  about  his  sketch  like  beasts  at  bait. 

"There  now,  I  taught  him  painting,"  said  the  Mate. 

When  he  had  gone,  the  gathered  men  dispersed; 
Yet  two  or  three  still  lingered  to  dispute 
What  errors  made  the  Dauber's  work  the  worst. 
They  probed  his  want  of  knowledge  to  the  root. 
"Bei  Gott!"  they  swore,  "der  Dauber  cannot  do  't; 
He  haf  no  knolich  how  to  put  der  pense. 
Der  Mate's  is  goot.    Der  Dauber  haf  no  sense." 

l»8ol 


DAUBER 

"You  hear?"  the  Bosun  cried,  "you  cannot  do  it!" 
"A  gospel  truth,"  the  Cook  said,  "true  as  hell! 
And  wisdom,  Dauber,  if  you  only  knew  it; 
A  five  year  boy  would  do  a  ship  as  well." 
"If  that's  the  kind  of  thing  you  hope  to  sell, 
God  help  you,"  echoed  Chips.    "I  tell  you  true, 
The  job's  beyond  you,  Dauber;  drop  it,  do. 

"Drop  it,  in  God's  name  drop  it,  and  have  done! 
You  see  you  cannot  do  it.    Here's  the  Mate 
Paints  you  to  frazzles  before  everyone; 
Paints  you  a  dandy  clipper  while  you  wait. 
While  you,  Lord  love  us,  daub.    I  tell  you  straight, 
We've  had  enough  of  daubing;  drop  it;  quit. 
You  cannot  paint,  so  make  an  end  of  it." 

"That's  sense,"  said  all;  "you  cannot,  why  pretend?" 

The  Dauber  rose  and  put  his  easel  by. 

"You've  said  enough,"  he  said,  "now  let  it  end. 

Who  cares  how  bad  my  painting  may  be?  I 

Mean  to  go  on,  and,  if  I  fail,  to  try. 

However  much  I  miss  of  my  intent, 

If  I  have  done  my  best  I'll  be  content. 

"You  cannot  understand  that.    Let  it  be. 
You  cannot  understand,  nor  know,  nor  share. 
This  is  a  matter  touching  only  me; 
My  sketch  may  be  a  daub,  for  aught  I  care. 
You  may  be  right.    But  even  if  you  were, 
Your  mocking  should  not  stop  this  work  of  mine; 
Rot  though  it  be,  its  prompting  is  divine. 
[281] 


DAUBER 

"You  cannot  understand  that — you,  and  you, 
And  you,  you  Bosun.    You  can  stand  and  jeer, 
That  is  the  task  your  spirit  fits  you  to, 
That  you  can  understand  and  hold  most  dear. 
Grin,  then,  like  collars,  ear  to  donkey  ear, 
But  let  me  daub.    Try,  you,  to  understand 
Which  task  will  bear  the  light  best  on  God's  hand.' 


The  wester  came  as  steady  as  the  Trades; 
Brightly  it  blew,  and  still  the  ship  did  shoulder 
The  brilliance  of  the  water's  white  cockades 
Into  the  milky  green  of  smoky  smoulder. 
The  sky  grew  bluer  and  the  air  grew  colder. 
Southward  she  thundered  while  the  westers  held, 
Proud,  with  taut  bridles,  pawing,  but  compelled. 

And  still  the  Dauber  strove,  though  all  men  mocked, 

To  draw  the  splendour  of  the  passing  thing, 

And  deep  inside  his  heart  a  something  locked, 

Long  pricking  in  him,  now  began  to  sting — 

A  fear  of  the  disasters  storm  might  bring; 

His  rank  as  painter  would  be  ended  then — 

He  would  keep  watch  and  watch  like  other  men. 

And  go  aloft  with  them  to  man  the  yard 
When  the  great  ship  was  rolling  scuppers  under, 
Burying  her  snout  all  round  the  compass  card, 
While  the  green  water  struck  at  her  and  stunned  her; 
When  the  lee-rigging  slacked,  when  one  long  thunder 
[282] 


DAUBER 

Boomed  from  the  black  to  windward,  when  the  sail 
Booted  and  spurred  the  devil  in  the  gale. 

For  him  to  ride  on  men :  that  was  the  time 

The  Dauber  dreaded;  then  lest  the  test  would  come, 

When  seas,  half-frozen,  slushed  the  decks  with  slime, 

And  all  the  air  was  blind  with  flying  scum; 

When  the  drenched  sails  were  furled,  when  the  fierce  hum 

In  weather  riggings  died  into  the  roar 

Of  God's  eternal  never  tamed  by  shore. 

Once  in  the  passage  he  had  worked  aloft, 
Shifting  her  suits  one  summer  afternoon, 
In  the  bright  Trade  wind,  when  the  wind  was  soft, 
Shaking  the  points,  making  the  tackle  croon. 
But  that  was  child's  play  to  the  future:  soon 
He  would  be  ordered  up  when  sails  and  spars 
Were  flying  and  going  mad  among  the  stars. 

He  had  been  scared  that  first  time,  daunted,  thrilled, 
Not  by  the  height  so  much  as  by  the  size, 
And  then  the  danger  to  the  man  unskilled 
In  standing  on  a  rope  that  runs  through  eyes. 
"But  in  a  storm,"  he  thought,  "the  yards  will  rise 
And  roll  together  down,  and  snap  their  gear!" 
The  sweat  came  cold  upon  his  palms  for  fear. 

Sometimes  in  Gloucester  he  had  felt  a  pang 
Swinging  below  the  house-eaves  on  a  stage. 
But  stages  carry  rails;  here  he  would  hang 
Upon  a  jerking  rope  in  a  storm's  rage, 
Ducked  that  the  sheltering  oilskin  might  assuage 

[283] 


DAUBER 

The  beating  of  the  storm,  clutching  the  jack, 
Beating  the  sail,  and  being  beaten  back. 

Drenched,  frozen,  gasping,  blinded,  beaten  dumb, 
High  in  the  night,  reeling  great  blinding  arcs 
As  the  ship  rolled,  his  chappy  fingers  numb, 
The  deck  below  a  narrow  blur  of  marks, 
The  sea  a  welter  of  whiteness  shot  with  sparks, 
Now  snapping  up  in  bursts,  now  dying  away, 
Salting  the  horizontal  snow  with  spray. 

A  hundred  and  fifty  feet  above  the  deck, 

And  there,  while  the  ship  rolls,  boldly  to  sit 

Upon  a  foot-rope  moving,  jerk  and  check, 

While  half  a  dozen  seamen  work  on  it; 

Held  by  one  hand,  straining,  by  strength  and  wit 

To  toss  a  gasket's  coil  around  the  yard, 

How  could  he  compass  that  when  blowing  hard? 

And  if  he  failed  in  any  least  degree, 

Or  faltered  for  an  instant,  or  showed  slack, 

He  might  go  drown  himself  within  the  sea, 

And  add  a  bubble  to  the  clipper's  track. 

He  had  signed  his  name,  there  was  no  turning  back, 

No  pardon  for  default — this  must  be  done. 

One  iron  rule  at  sea  binds  everyone. 

Till  now  he  had  been  treated  with  contempt 
As  neither  man  nor  thing,  a  creature  borne 
On  the  ship's  articles,  but  left  exempt 
From  all  the  seamen's  life  except  their  scorn. 
But  he  would  rank  as  seaman  off  the  Horn, 
[284] 


DAUBER 

Work  as  a  seaman,  and  be  kept  or  cast 
By  standards  set  for  men  before  the  mast. 

Even  now  they  shifted  suits  of  sails;  they  bent 
The  storm-suit  ready  for  the  expected  time; 
The  mighty  wester  that  the  Plate  had  lent 
Had  brought  them  far  into  the  wintry  clime. 
At  dawn,  out  of  the  shadow,  there  was  rime, 
The  dim  Magellan  Clouds  were  frosty  clear, 
The  wind  had  edge,  the  testing-time  was  near. 

And  then  he  wondered  if  the  tales  were  lies 
Told  by  old  hands  to  terrify  the  new, 
For,  since  the  ship  left  England,  only  twice 
Had  there  been  need  to  start  a  sheet  or  clew, 
Then  only  royals,  for  an  hour  or  two, 
And  no  seas  broke  aboard,  nor  was  it  cold. 
What  were  these  gales  of  which  the  stories  told  ? 

The  thought  went  by.    He  had  heard  the  Bosun  tell 
Too  often,  and  too  fiercely,  not  to  know 
That  being  off  the  Horn  in  June  is  Hell: 
Hell  of  continual  toil  in  ice  and  snow, 
Frostbitten  hell  in  which  the  westers  blow 
Shrieking  for  days  on  end,  in  which  the  seas 
Gulf  the  starved  seamen  till  their  marrows  freeze. 

Such  was  the  weather  he  might  look  to  find, 
Such  was  the  work  expected:  there  remained 
Firmly  to  set  his  teeth,  resolve  his  mind, 
And  be  the  first,  however  much  it  pained, 
And  bring  his  honour  round  the  Horn  unstained, 


DAUBER 

And  win  his  mates'  respect;  and  thence,  untainted, 
Be  ranked  as  man  however  much  he  painted. 

He  drew  deep  breath;  a  gantline  swayed  aloft 
A  lower  topsail,  hard  with  rope  and  leather, 
Such  as  men's  frozen  fingers  fight  with  oft 
Below  the  Ramirez  in  Cape  Horn  weather. 
The  arms  upon  the  yard  hove  all  together, 
Lighting  the  head  along;  a  thought  occurred 
Within  the  painter's  brain  like  a  bright  bird: 

That  this,  and  so  much  like  it,  of  man's  toil, 

Compassed  by  naked  manhood  in  strange  places, 

Was  all  heroic,  but  outside  the  coil 

Within  which  modern  art  gleams  or  grimaces; 

That  if  he  drew  that  line  of  sailor's  faces 

Sweating  the  sail,  their  passionate  play  and  change, 

It  would  be  new,  and  wonderful,  and  strange. 

That  that  was  what  his  work  meant;  it  would  be 

A  training  in  new  vision — a  revealing 

Of  passionate  men  in  battle  with  the  sea, 

High  on  an  unseen  stage,  shaking  and  reeling; 

And  men  through  him  would  understand  their  feeling, 

Their  might,  their  misery,  their  tragic  power, 

And  all  by  suffering  pain  a  little  hour; 

High  on  the  yard  with  them,  feeling  their  pain, 
Battling  with  them;  and  it  had  not  been  done. 
He  was  a  door  to  new  worlds  in  the  brain, 
A  window  opening  letting  in  the  sun, 
A  voice  saying,  "Thus  is  bread  fetched  and  ports  won, 

[286] 


DAUBER 

And  life  lived  out  at  sea  where  men  exist 
Solely  by  man's  strong  brain  and  sturdy  wrist." 

So  he  decided,  as  he  cleaned  his  brasses, 
Hearing  without,  aloft,  the  curse,  the  shout 
Where  the  taut  gantline  passes  and  repasses, 
Heaving  new  topsails  to  be  lighted  out. 
It  was  most  proud,  however  self  might  doubt, 
To  share  man's  tragic  toil  and  paint  it  true. 
He  took  the  offered  Fate:  this  he  would  do. 

That  night  the  snow  fell  between  six  and  seven, 

A  little  feathery  fall  so  light,  so  dry — 

An  aimless  dust  out  of  a  confused  heaven, 

Upon  an  air  no  steadier  than  a  sigh; 

The  powder  dusted  down  and  wandered  by 

So  purposeless,  so  many,  and  so  cold, 

Then  died,  and  the  wind  ceased  and  the  ship  rolled. 

Rolled  till  she  clanged — rolled  till  the  brain  was  tired, 

Marking  the  acme  of  the  heaves,  the  pause 

While  the  sea-beauty  rested  and  respired, 

Drinking  great  draughts  of  roller  at  her  hawse. 

Flutters  of  snow  came  aimless  upon  flaws. 

"Lock  up  your  paints,"  the  Mate  said,  speaking  light: 

"This  is  the  Horn;  you'll  join  my  watch  to-night!" 

VI 

All  through  the  windless  night  the  clipper  rolled 
In  a  great  swell  with  oily  gradual  heaves 
Which  rolled  her  down  until  her  time-bells  tolled, 

[287! 


DAUBER 

Clang,  and  the  weltering  water  moaned  like  beeves. 
The  thundering  rattle  of  slatting  shook  the  sheaves, 
Startles  of  water  made  the  swing  ports  gush, 
The  sea  was  moaning  and  sighing  and  saying  "Hush!" 

It  was  all  black  and  starless.    Peering  down 
Into  the  water,  trying  to  pierce  the  gloom, 
One  saw  a  dim,  smooth,  oily  glitter  of  brown 
Heaving  and  dying  away  and  leaving  room 
For  yet  another.    Like  the  march  of  doom 
Came  those  great  powers  of  marching  silences; 
Then  fog  came  down,  dead-cold,  and  hid  the  seas. 

They  set  the  Dauber  to  the  foghorn.    There 
He  stood  upon  the  poop,  making  to  sound 
Out  of  the  pump  the  sailor's  nasal  blare, 
Listening  lest  ice  should  make  the  note  resound. 
She  bayed  there  like  a  solitary  hound 
Lost  in  a  covert;  all  the  watch  she  bayed. 
The  fog,  come  closelier  down,  no  answer  made. 

Denser  it  grew,  until  the  ship  was  lost. 

The  elemental  hid  her;  she  was  merged 

In  mufflings  of  dark  death,  like  a  man's  ghost, 

New  to  the  change  of  death,  yet  thither  urged. 

Then  from  the  hidden  waters  something  surged — 

Mournful,  despairing,  great,  greater  than  speech, 

A  noise  like  one  slow  wave  on  a  still  beach. 

Mournful,  and  then  again  mournful,  and  still 
Out  of  the  night  that  mighty  voice  arose; 
The  Dauber  at  his  foghorn  felt  the  thrill. 

[288] 


DAUBER 

Who  rode  that  desolate  sea?    What  forms  were  those? 
Mournful,  from  things  defeated,  in  the  throes 
Of  memory  of  some  conquered  hunting-ground, 
Out  of  the  night  of  death  arose  the  sound. 

"Whales!"  said  the  Mate.    They  stayed  there  all  night  long 

Answering  the  horn.    Out  of  the  night  they  spoke, 

Defeated  creatures  who  had  suffered  wrong, 

But  were  still  noble  underneath  the  stroke. 

They  filled  the  darkness  when  the  Dauber  woke; 

The  men  came  peering  to  the  rail  to  hear, 

And  the  sea  sighed,  and  the  fog  rose  up  sheer. 

A  wall  of  nothing  at  the  world's  last  edge, 

Where  no  life  came  except  defeated  life. 

The  Dauber  felt  shut  in  within  a  hedge, 

Behind  which  form  was  hidden  and  thought  was  rife, 

And  that  a  blinding  flash,  a  thrust,  a  knife 

Would  sweep  the  hedge  away  and  make  all  plain, 

Brilliant  beyond  all  words,  blinding  the  brain. 

So  the  night  passed,  but  then  no  morning  broke — 
Only  a  something  showed  that  night  was  dead. 
A  sea-bird,  cackling  like  a  devil,  spoke, 
And  the  fog  drew  away  and  hung  like  lead. 
Like  mighty  cliffs  it  shaped,  sullen  and  red; 
Like  glowering  gods  at  watch  it  did  appear, 
And  sometimes  drew  away,  and  then  drew  near. 

Like  islands,  and  like  chasms,  and  like  hell, 
But  always  mighty  and  red,  gloomy  and  ruddy, 
Shutting  the  visible  sea  in  like  a  well; 

[289] 


DAUBER 

Slow  heaving  in  vast  ripples,  blank  and  muddy, 
Where  the  sun  should  have  risen  it  streaked  bloody. 
The  day  was  still-born;  all  the  sea-fowl  scattering 
Splashed  the  still  water,  mewing,  hovering,  clattering. 

Then  Polar  snow  came  down  little  and  light, 
Till  all  the  sky  was  hidden  by  the  small, 
Most  multitudinous  drift  of  dirty  white 
Tumbling  and  wavering  down  and  covering  all — 
Covering  the  sky,  the  sea,  the  clipper  tall, 
Furring  the  ropes  with  white,  casing  the  mast, 
Coming  on  no  known  air,  but  blowing  past. 

And  all  the  air  seemed  full  of  gradual  moan, 

As  though  in  those  cloud-chasms  the  horns  were  blowing 

The  mort  for  gods  cast  out  and  overthrown, 

Or  for  the  eyeless  sun  plucked  out  and  going. 

Slow  the  low  gradual  moan  came  in  the  snowing; 

The  Dauber  felt  the  prelude  had  begun. 

The  snowstorm  fluttered  by;  he  saw  the  sun 

Show  and  pass  by,  gleam  from  one  towering  prison 

Into  another,  vaster  and  more  grim, 

Which  in  dull  crags  of  darkness  had  arisen 

To  muffle-to  a  final  door  on  him. 

The  gods  upon  the  dull  crags  lowered  dim, 

The  pigeons  chattered,  quarrelling  in  the  track. 

In  the  south-west  the  dimness  dulled  to  black. 

Then  came  the  cry  of  "Call  all  hands  on  deck!" 
The  Dauber  knew  its  meaning;  it  was  come: 
Cape  Horn,  that  tramples  beauty  into  wreck, 

[290] 


DAUBER 

And  crumples  steel  and  smites  the  strong  man  dumb. 
Down  clattered  flying  kites  and  staysails:  some 
Sang  out  in  quick,  high  calls:  the  fair-leads  skirled, 
And  from  the  south-west  came  the  end  of  the  world. 

"Caught  in  her  ball-dress,"  said  the  Bosun,  hauling; 

"Lee-ay,  lee-ay!"  quick,  high,  come  the  men's  call; 

It  was  all  wallop  of  sails  and  startled  calling. 

"Let  fly!"    "Let  go!"    "Clew  up!"  and  "Let  go  all!" 

"Now  up  and  make  them  fast!"    "Here,  give  us  a  haul!" 

"Now  up  and  stow  them!    Quick!    By  God!  we're  done!" 

The  blackness  crunched  all  memory  of  the  sun. 

"Up!"  said  the  Mate.    "Mizen  top-gallants.    Hurry!" 

The  Dauber  ran,  the  others  ran,  the  sails 

Slatted  and  shook;  out  of  the  black  a  flurry 

Whirled  in  fine  lines,  tattering  the  edge  to  trails. 

Painting  and  art  and  England  were  old  tales 

Told  in  some  other  life  to  that  pale  man, 

Who  struggled  with  white  fear  and  gulped  and  ran. 

He  struck  a  ringbolt  in  his  haste  and  fell — 

Rose,  sick  with  pain,  half-lamed  in  his  left  knee; 

He  reached  the  shrouds  where  clambering  men  pell-mell 

Hustled  each  other  up  and  cursed  him;  he 

Hurried  aloft  with  them:  then  from  the  sea 

Came  a  cold,  sudden  breath  that  made  the  hair 

Stiff  on  the  neck,  as  though  Death  whispered  there. 

A  man  below  him  punched  him  in  the  side. 
"Get  up,  you  Dauber,  or  let  me  get  past." 
He  saw  the  belly  of  the  skysail  skied, 

[291] 


DAUBER 

Gulped,  and  clutched  tight,  and  tried  to  go  more  fast. 
Sometimes  he  missed  his  ratline  and  was  grassed, 
Scraped  his  shin  raw  against  the  rigid  line 
The  clamberers  reached  the  futtock-shrouds'  incline. 

Cursing  they  came;  one,  kicking  out  behind, 
Kicked  Dauber  in  the  mouth,  and  one  below 
Punched  at  his  calves;  the  futtock-shrouds  inclined 
It  was  a  perilous  path  for  one  to  go. 
"Up,  Dauber,  up!"    A  curse  followed  a  blow. 
He  reached  the  top  and  gasped,  then  on,  then  on. 
And  one  voice  yelled  "Let  go!"  and  one  "All  gone!" 

Fierce  clamberers,  some  in  oilskins,  some  in  rags, 

Hustling  and  hurrying  up,  up  the  steep  stairs. 

Before  the  windless  sails  were  blown  to  flags, 

And  whirled  like  dirty  birds  athwart  great  airs, 

Ten  men  in  all,  to  get  this  mast  of  theirs 

Snugged  to  the  gale  in  time.    "Up!  Damn  you,  run!" 

The  mizen  topmast  head  was  safely  won. 

"Lay  out!"  the  Bosun  yelled.    The  Dauber  laid 

Out  on  the  yard,  gripping  the  yard  and  feeling 

Sick  at  the  mighty  space  of  air  displayed 

Below  his  feet,  where  mewing  birds  were  wheeling. 

A  giddy  fear  was  on  him;  he  was  reeling. 

He  bit  his  lip  half  through,  clutching  the  jack. 

A  cold  sweat  glued  the  shirt  upon  his  back. 

The  yard  was  shaking,  for  a  brace  was  loose. 
He  felt  that  he  would  fall;  he  clutched,  he  bent, 
Clammy  with  natural  terror  to  the  shoes 
[292] 


DAUBER 

While  idiotic  promptings  came  and  went. 
Snow  fluttered  on  a  wind-flaw  and  was  spent; 
He  saw  the  water  darken.    Someone  yelled, 
"Frap  it;  don't  stay  to  furl!    Hold  on!"    He  held. 

Darkness  came  down — half  darkness — in  a  whirl; 
The  sky  went  out,  the  waters  disappeared. 
He  felt  a  shocking  pressure  of  blowing  hurl 
The  ship  upon  her  side.    The  darkness  speared 
At  her  with  wind;  she  staggered,  she  careered, 
Then  down  she  lay.    The  Dauber  felt  her  go; 
He  saw  his  yard  tilt  downwards.    Then  the  snow 

Whirled  all  about — dense,  multitudinous,  cold — 
Mixed  with  the  wind's  one  devilish  thrust  and  shriek, 
Which  whiffled  out  men's  tears,  deafened,  took  hold, 
Flattening  the  flying  drift  against  the  cheek. 
The  yards  buckled  and  bent,  man  could  not  speak. 
The  ship  lay  on  her  broadside;  the  wind's  sound 
Had  devilish  malice  at  having  got  her  downed 


How  long  the  gale  had  blown  he  could  not  tell, 
Only  the  world  had  changed,  his  life  had  died. 
A  moment  now  was  everlasting  hell. 
Nature  an  onslaught  from  the  weather  side, 
A  withering  rush  of  death,  a  frost  that  cried, 
Shrieked,  till  he  withered  at  the  heart;  a  hail 
Plastered  his  oilskins  with  an  icy  mail. 

"Cut!"  yelled  his  mate.    He  looked — the  sail  was  gone, 
Blown  into  rags  in  the  first  furious  squall; 
The  tatters  drummed  the  devil's  tattoo.    On 

1*93 1 


DAUBER 

The  buckling  yard  a  block  thumped  like  a  mall. 
The  ship  lay — the  sea  smote  her,  the  wind's  bawl 
Came,  "loo,  loo,  loo!"     The  devil  cried  his  hounds 
On  to  the  poor  spent  stag  strayed  in  his  bounds. 

"Cut!    Ease  her!"  yelled  his  mate;  the  Dauber  heard. 

His  mate  wormed  up  the  tilted  yard  and  slashed, 

A  rag  of  canvas  skimmed  like  a  darting  bird. 

The  snow  whirled,  the  ship  bowed  to  it,  the  gear  lashed, 

The  sea-tops  were  cut  off  and  flung  down  smashed; 

Tatters  of  shouts  were  flung,  the  rags  of  yells — 

And  clang,  clang,  clang,  below  beat  the  two  bells. 

"0  God!"  the  Dauber  moaned.    A  roaring  rang, 

Blasting  the  royals  like  a  cannonade; 

The  backstays  parted  with  a  crackling  clang, 

The  upper  spars  were  snapped  like  twigs  decayed — 

Snapped  at  their  heels,  their  jagged  splinters  splayed, 

Like  white  and  ghastly  hairs  erect  with  fear. 

The  Mate  yelled,  "Gone,  by  God,  and  pitched  them  clear! " 

"Up!"  yelled  the  Bosun;  "up  and  clear  the  wreck!" 

The  Dauber  followed  where  he  led:  below 

He  caught  one  giddy  glimpsing  of  the  deck 

Filled  with  white  water,  as  though  heaped  with  snow. 

He  saw  the  streamers  of  the  rigging  blow 

Straight  out  like  pennons  from  the  splintered  mast, 

Then,  all  sense  dimmed,  all  was  an  icy  blast 

Roaring  from  nether  hell  and  filled  with  ice, 
Roaring  and  crashing  on  the  jerking  stage, 
An  utter  bridle  giVen  to  utter  vice, 

[294] 


DAUBER 

Limitless  power  mad  with  endless  rage 
Withering  the  soul;  a  minute  seemed  an  age. 
He  clutched  and  hacked  at  ropes,  at  rags  of  sail. 
Thinking  that  comfort  was  a  fairy-tale 

Told  long  ago —  long,  long  ago —  long  since 
Heard  of  in  other  lives — imagined,  dreamed — 
There  where  the  basest  beggar  was  a  prince 
To  him  in  torment  where  the  tempest  screamed, 
Comfort  and  warmth  and  ease  no  longer  seemed 
Things  that  a  man  could  know:  soul,  body,  brain, 
Knew  nothing  but  the  wind,  the  cold,  the  pain. 

"Leave  that!"  the  Bosun  shouted;  "Crojick  save!" 

The  splitting  crojick,  not  yet  gone  to  rags, 

Thundered  below,  beating  till  something  gave, 

Bellying  between  its  buntlines  into  bags. 

Some  birds  were  blown  past,  shrieking:  dark,  like  shags, 

Their  backs  seemed,  looking  down.    "Leu,  leu!"  they  cried. 

The  ship  lay,  the  seas  thumped  her;  she  had  died. 

They  reached  the  crojick  yard,  which  buckled,  buckled 
Like  a  thin  whalebone  to  the  topsail's  strain. 
They  laid  upon  the  yard  and  heaved  and  knuckled, 
Pounding  the  sail,  which  jangled  and  leapt  again. 
It  was  quite  hard  with  ice,  its  rope  like  chain, 
Its  strength  like  seven  devils;  it  shook  the  mast. 
They  cursed  and  toiled  and  froze:  a  long  time  passed. 

Two  hours  passed,  then  a  dim  lightening  came. 
Those  frozen  ones  upon  the  yard  could  see 
The  mainsail  and  the  foresail  still  the  same, 

[295! 


DAUBER 

Still  battling  with  the  hands  and  blowing  free, 
Rags  tattered  where  the  staysails  used  to  be. 
The  lower  topsails  stood;  the  ship's  lee  deck 
Seethed  with  four  feet  of  water  filled  with  wreck. 

An  hour  more  went  by;  the  Dauber  lost 
All  sense  of  hands  and  feet,  all  sense  of  all 
But  of  a  wind  that  cut  him  to  the  ghost, 
And  of  a  frozen  fold  he  had  to  haul, 
Of  heavens  that  fell  and  never  ceased  to  fall, 
And  ran  in  smoky  snatches  along  the  sea, 
Leaping  from  crest  to  wave-crest,  yelling.    He 

Lost  sense  of  time;  no  bells  went,  but  he  felt 

Ages  go  over  him.    At  last,  at  last 

They  frapped  the  cringled  crojick's  icy  pelt; 

In  frozen  bulge  and  bunt  they  made  it  fast. 

Then,  scarcely  live,  they  laid  in  to  the  mast. 

The  Captain's  speaking  trumpet  gave  a  blare, 

"Make  fast  the  topsail,  Mister,  while  you're  there." 

Some  seamen  cursed,  but  up  they  had  to  go — 

Up  to  the  topsail  yard  to  spend  an  hour 

Stowing  a  topsail  in  a  blinding  snow, 

Which  made  the  strongest  man  among  them  cower. 

More  men  came  up,  the  fresh  hands  gave  them  power, 

They  stowed  the  sail;  then  with  a  rattle  of  chain 

One  half  the  crojick  burst  its  bonds  again. 


They  stowed  the  sail,  frapping  it  round  with  rope, 

Leaving  no  surface  for  the  wind,  no  fold, 

Then  down  the  weather  shrouds,  half  dead,  they  grope; 


DAUBER 

That  struggle  with  the  sail  had  made  them  old. 
They  wondered  if  the  crojick  furl  would  hold. 
"Lucky,"  said  one,  "it  didn't  spring  the  spar." 
"Lucky!"  the  Bosun  said,  "Lucky!    We  are!" 

She  came  within  two  shakes  of  turning  top 

Or  stripping  all  her  shroud-screws,  that  first  quiff. 

Now  fish  those  wash-deck  buckets  out  of  the  slop. 

Here's  Dauber  says  he  doesn't  like  Cape  Stiff. 

This  isn't  wind,  man,  this  is  only  a  whiff. 

Hold  on,  all  hands,  hold  on!"  a  sea,  half  seen, 

Paused,  mounted,  burst,  and  filled  the  main-deck  green, 

The  Dauber  felt  a  mountain  of  water  fall. 
It  covered  him  deep,  deep,  he  felt  it  fill, 
Over  his  head,  the  deck,  the  fife-rails,  all, 
Quieting  the  ship,  she  trembled  and  lay  still. 
Then  with  a  rush  and  shatter  and  clanging  shrill 
Over  she  went;  he  saw  the  water  cream 
Over  the  bitts;  he  saw  the  half-deck  stream. 

Then  in  the  rush  he  swirled,  over  she  went; 
Her  lee-rail  dipped,  he  struck,  and  something  gave; 
His  legs  went  through  a  port  as  the  roll  spent; 
She  paused,  then  rolled,  and  back  the  water  drave. 
He  drifted  with  it  as  a  part  of  the  wave, 
Drowning,  half-stunned,  exhausted,  partly  frozen, 
He  struck  the  booby  hatchway;  then  the  Bosun 

Leaped,  seeing  his  chance,  before  the  next  sea  burst, 
And  caught  him  as  he  drifted,  seized  him,  held, 
Up-ended  him  against  the  bitts,  and  cursed. 

[2971 


DAUBER 

"This  ain't  the  George's  Swimming  Baths,"  he  yelled; 
"Keep  on  your  feet!"  Another  grey-back  felled 
The  two  together,  and  the  Bose,  half-blind, 
Spat:  "One's  a  joke,"  he  cursed,  "but  two's  unkind." 

"Now,  damn  it,  Dauber!"  said  the  Mate.    "Look  out, 
Or  you'll  be  over  the  side!"    The  water  freed; 
Each  clanging  freeing-port  became  a  spout. 
The  men  cleared  up  the  decks  as  there  was  need. 
The  Dauber's  head  was  cut,  he  felt  it  bleed 
Into  his  oilskins  as  he  clutched  and  coiled. 
Water  and  sky  were  devil's  brews  which  boiled, 

Boiled,  shrieked,  and  glowered;  but  the  ship  was  saved. 
Snugged  safely  down,  though  fourteen  sails  were  split. 
Out  of  the  dark  a  fiercer  fury  raved. 
The  grey-backs  died  and  mounted,  each  crest  lit 
With  a  white  toppling  gleam  that  hissed  from  it 
And  slid,  or  leaped,  or  ran  with  whirls  of  cloud, 
Mad  with  inhuman  life  that  shrieked  aloud. 

The  watch  was  called;  Dauber  might  go  below. 

"Splice  the  main  brace!"  the  Mate  called.    All  laid  aft 

To  get  a  gulp  of  momentary  glow 

As  some  reward  for  having  saved  the  craft. 

The  steward  ladled  mugs,  from  which  each  quafFd 

Whisky,  with  water,  sugar,  and  lime-juice,  hot, 

A  quarter  of  a  pint  each  made  the  tot. 

Beside  the  lamp-room  door  the  steward  stood 
Ladling  it  out,  and  each  man  came  in  turn, 
Tipped  his  sou'-wester,  drank  it,  grunted  "Good!" 

[298] 


DAUBER 

And  shambled  forward,  letting  it  slowly  burn: 
When  all  were  gone  the  Dauber  lagged  astern, 
Torn  by  his  frozen  body's  lust  for  heat, 
The  liquor's  pleasant  smell,  so  warm,  so  sweet, 

And  by  a  promise  long  since  made  at  home 

Never  to  taste  strong  liquor.    Now  he  knew 

The  worth  of  liquor;  now  he  wanted  some. 

His  frozen  body  urged  him  to  the  brew; 

Yet  it  seemed  wrong,  an  evil  thing  to  do 

To  break  that  promise.    "Dauber,"  said  the  Mate, 

"Drink,  and  turn  in,  man;  why  the  hell  d'ye  wait?" 

"Please,  sir,  I'm  temperance."    "Temperance  are  you,  hey? 

That's  all  the  more  for  me!    So  you're  for  slops? 

I  thought  you'd  had  enough  slops  for  to-day. 

Go  to  your  bunk  and  ease  her  when  she  drops. 

And — damme,  steward!  you  brew  with  too  much  hops! 

Stir  up  the  sugar,  man! — and  tell  your  girl 

How  kind  the  Mate  was  teaching  you  to  furl." 

Then  the  Mate  drank  the  remnants,  six  men's  share, 
And  ramped  into  his  cabin,  where  he  stripped 
And  danced  unclad,  and  was  uproarious  there. 
In  waltzes  with  the  cabin  cat  he  tripped. 
Singing  in  tenor  clear  that  he  was  pipped — 
That  "he  who  strove  the  tempest  to  disarm, 
Must  never  first  embrail  the  lee  yard-arm." 

And  that  his  name  was  Ginger.    Dauber  crept 
Back  to  the  round-house,  gripping  by  the  rail. 
The  wind  howled  by;  the  passionate  water  leapt; 


DAUBER 

The  night  was  all  one  roaring  with  the  gale. 
Then  at  the  door  he  stopped,  uttering  a  wail; 
His  hands  were  perished  numb  and  blue  as  veins, 
He  could  not  turn  the  knob  for  both  the  Spains. 

A  hand  came  shuffling  aft,  dodging  the  seas, 
Singing  "her  nut-brown  hair"  between  his  teeth; 
Taking  the  ocean's  tumult  at  his  ease 
Even  when  the  wash  about  his  thighs  did  seethe. 
His  soul  was  happy  in  its  happy  sheath; 
"What,  Dauber,  won't  it  open?    Fingers  cold? 
You'll  talk  of  this  time,  Dauber,  when  you're  old." 

He  flung  the  door  half  open,  and  a  sea 
Washed  them  both  in,  over  the  splashboard,  down; 
"You  silly,  salt  miscarriage!"  sputtered  he. 
"Dauber,  pull  out  the  plug  before  we  drown! 
That's  spoiled  my  laces  and  my  velvet  gown. 
Where  is  the  plug?"    Groping  in  pitch  dark  water, 
He  sang  between  his  teeth  "The  Farmer's  Daughter." 

It  was  pitch  dark  within  there;  at  each  roll 

The  chests  slid  to  the  slant;  the  water  rushed, 

Making  full  many  a  clanging  tin  pan  bowl 

Into  the  black  below-bunks  as  it  gushed. 

The  dog-tired  men  slept  through  it;  they  were  hushed. 

The  water  drained,  and  then  with  matches  damp 

The  man  struck  heads  off  till  he  lit  the  lamp. 

"Thank  you,"  the  Dauber  said;  the  seaman  grinned. 
"This  is  your  first  foul  weather?"    "Yes."    "I  thought 
Up  on  the  yard  you  hadn't  seen  much  wind. 

[300! 


DAUBER 

Them's  rotten  sea-boots,  Dauber,  that  you  brought. 
Now  I  must  cut  on  deck  before  I'm  caught." 
He  went;  the  lamp-flame  smoked;  he  slammed  the  door; 
A  film  of  water  loitered  across  the  floor. 

The  Dauber  watched  it  come  and  watched  it  go; 

He  had  had  revelation  of  the  lies 

Cloaking  the  truth  men  never  choose  to  know; 

He  could  bear  witness  now  and  cleanse  their  eyes. 

He  had  beheld  in  suffering;  he  was  wise; 

This  was  the  sea,  this  searcher  of  the  soul — 

This  never-dying  shriek  fresh  from  the  Pole. 

He  shook  with  cold;  his  hands  could  not  undo 

His  oilskin  buttons,  so  he  shook  and  sat, 

Watching  his  dirty  fingers,  dirty  blue, 

Hearing  without  the  hammering  tackle  slat, 

Within,  the  drops  from  dripping  clothes  went  pat, 

Running  in  little  patters,  gentle,  sweet, 

And  "Ai,  ai!"  went  the  wind,  and  the  seas  beat. 

His  bunk  was  sopping  wet;  he  clambered  in, 
None  of  his  clothes  were  dry;  his  fear  recurred. 
Cramps  bunched  the  muscles  underneath  his  skin. 
The  great  ship  rolled  until  the  lamp  was  blurred. 
He  took  his  Bible  and  tried  to  read  a  word; 
Trembled  at  going  aloft  again,  and  then 
Resolved  to  fight  it  out  and  show  it  to  men. 

Faces  recurred,  fierce  memories  of  the  yard, 
The  frozen  sail,  the  savage  eyes,  the  jests, 
The  oaths  of  one  great  seaman,  syphilis-scarred, 

[301] 


DAUBER 

The  tug  of  leeches  jammed  beneath  their  chests, 
The  buntliness  bellying  bunts  out  into  breasts. 
The  deck  so  desolate-grey,  the  sky  so  wild, 
He  fell  asleep,  and  slept  like  a  young  child. 

But  not  for  long;  the  cold  awoke  him  soon, 
The  hot-ache  and  the  skin-cracks  and  the  cramp, 
The  seas  thundering  without,  the  gale's  wild  tune, 
The  sopping  misery  of  the  blankets  damp. 
A  speaking-trumpet  roared;  a  sea-boot's  stamp 
Clogged  at  the  door.    A  man  entered  to  shout: 
"All  hands  on  deck!    Arouse  here!    Tumble  out!" 

The  caller  raised  the  lamp;  his  oilskins  clicked 
As  the  thin  ice  upon  them  cracked  and  fell. 
"Rouse  out!"  he  said.    "This  lamp  is  frozen  wick'd. 
Rouse  out!"    His  accent  deepened  to  a  yell. 
"We're  among  ice;  it's  blowing  up  like  hell. 
We're  going  to  hand  both  topsails.    Time,  I  guess, 
We're  sheeted  up.    Rouse  out!    Don't  stay  to  dress!" 

"Is  it  cold  on  deck?"  said  Dauber.    Is  it  cold? 
We're  sheeted  up,  I  tell  you,  inches  thick! 
The  fo'c'sle's  like  a  wedding-cake,  I'm  told. 
Now  tumble  out,  my  sons;  on  deck  here,  quick! 
Rouse  out,  away,  and  come  and  climb  the  stick. 
I'm  going  to  call  the  half-deck.    Bosun!    Hey! 
Both  topsails  coming  in.    Heave  out!    Away!" 

He  went;  the  Dauber  tumbled  from  his  bunk, 
Clutching  the  side.    He  heard  the  wind  go  past, 
Making  the  great  ship  wallow  as  if  drunk. 
[302] 


DAUBER 

There  was  a  shocking  tumult  up  the  mast. 
"This  is  the  end,"  he  muttered,  "come  at  last! 
I've  got  to  go  aloft,  facing  this  cold. 
I  can't.    I  can't.    I'll  never  keep  my  hold. 

"I  cannot  face  the  topsail  yard  again. 

I  never  guessed  what  misery  it  would  be." 

The  cramps  and  hot-ache  made  him  sick  with  pain. 

The  ship  stopped  suddenly  from  a  devilish  sea, 

Then,  with  a  triumph  of  wash,  a  rush  of  glee, 

The  door  burst  in,  and  in  the  water  rolled, 

Filling  the  lower  bunks,  black,  creaming,  cold. 

The  lamp  sucked  out.    "Wash!"  went  the  water  back, 

Then  in  again,  flooding;  the  Bosun  swore. 

"You  useless  thing!    You  Dauber!    You  lee  slack! 

Get  out,  you  heekapoota!    Shut  the  door! 

You  coo-ilyaira,  what  are  you  waiting  for? 

Out  of  my  way,  you  thing — you  useless  thing!" 

He  slammed  the  door  indignant,  clanging  the  ring. 

And  then  he  lit  the  lamp,  drowned  to  the  waist; 

"Here's  a  fine  house!    Get  at  the  scupper-holes" — 

He  bent  against  it  as  the  water  raced — 

"And  pull  them  out  to  leeward  when  she  rolls. 

They  say  some  kinds  of  landsmen  don't  have  souls. 

I  well  believe.    A  Port  Mahon  baboon 

Would  make  more  soul  than  you  got  with  a  spoon." 

Down  in  the  icy  water  Dauber  groped 
To  find  the  plug;  the  racing  water  sluiced 
Over  his  head  and  shoulders  as  she  sloped. 

[303] 


DAUBER 

Without,  judged  by  the  sound,  all  hell  was  loosed. 
He  felt  cold  Death  about  him  tightly  noosed. 
That  Death  was  better  than  the  misery  there 
Iced  on  the  quaking  foothold  high  in  air. 

And  then  the  thought  came:  "I'm  a  failure.    AH 
My  life  has  been  a  failure.    They  were  right. 
It  will  not  matter  if  I  go  and  fall; 
I  should  be  free  then  from  this  hell's  delight. 
I'll  never  paint.    Best  let  it  end  to-night. 
I'll  slip  over  the  side.    I've  tried  and  failed." 
So  in  the  ice-cold  in  the  night  he  quailed. 

Death  would  be  better,  death,  than  this  long  hell 
Of  mockery  and  surrender  and  dismay — 
This  long  defeat  of  doing  nothing  well, 
Playing  the  part  too  high  for  him  to  play. 
"O  Death!  who  hides  the  sorry  thing  away, 
Take  me;  I've  failed.    I  cannot  play  these  cards." 
There  came  a  thundering  from  the  topsail  yards. 

And  then  he  bit  his  lips,  clenching  his  mind, 

And  staggered  out  to  muster,  beating  back 

The  coward  frozen  self  of  him  that  whined. 

Come  what  cards  might  he  meant  to  play  the  pack. 

"Ai!"  screamed  the  wind;  the  topsail  sheet  went  clack; 

Ice  filled  the  air  with  spikes;  the  grey-backs  burst. 

"Here's  Dauber,"  said  the  Mate,  "on  deck  the  first. 

"Why,  holy  sailor,  Dauber,  you're  a  man! 
I  took  you  for  a  soldier.  Up  now,  come!" 
Up  on  the  yards  already  they  began 

[304] 


DAUBER 

That  battle  with  a  gale  which  strikes  men  dumb. 
The  leaping  topsail  thundered  like  a  drum. 
The  frozen  snow  beat  in  the  face  like  shots. 
The  wind  spun  whipping  wave-crests  into  clots. 

So  up  upon  the  topsail  yard  again, 

In  the  great  tempest's  fiercest  hour,  began 

Probation  to  the  Dauber's  soul,  of  pain 

Which  crowds  a  century's  torment  in  a  span. 

For  the  next  month  the  ocean  taught  this  man, 

And  he,  in  that  month's  torment,  while  she  wested, 

Was  never  warm  nor  dry,  nor  full  nor  rested. 

But  still  it  blew,  or,  if  it  lulled,  it  rose 

Within  the  hour  and  blew  again;  and  still 

The  water  as  it  burst  aboard  her  froze. 

The  wind  blew  off  an  ice-field,  raw  and  chill, 

Daunting  man's  body,  tampering  with  his  will; 

But  after  thirty  days  a  ghostly  sun 

Gave  sickly  promise  that  the  storms  were  done. 

VII 

A  great  grey  sea  was  running  up  the  sky, 
Desolate  birds  flew  past;  their  mewings  came 
As  that  lone  water's  spiritual  cry, 
Its  forlorn  voice,  its  essence,  its  soul's  name. 
The  ship  limped  in  the  water  as  if  lame. 
Then  in  the  forenoon  watch  to  a  great  shout 
More  sail  was  made,  the  reefs  were  shaken  out. 

A  slant  came  from  the  south;  the  singers  stood 
Clapped  to  the  halliards,  hauling  to  a  tune, 
Old  as  the  sea,  a  fillip  to  the  blood. 

(305) 


DAUBER 

The  upper  topsail  rose  like  a  balloon. 
"So  long,  Cape  Stiff.    In  Valparaiso  soon," 
Said  one  to  other,  as  the  ship  lay  over, 
Making  her  course  again — again  a  rover. 

Slowly  the  sea  went  down  as  the  wind  fell. 

Clear  rang  the  songs,  "Hurrah!  Cape  Horn  is  bet!" 

The  combless  seas  were  lumping  into  swell; 

The  leaking  fo'c'sles  were  no  longer  wet. 

More  sail  was  made;  the  watch  on  deck  was  set 

To  cleaning  up  the  ruin  broken  bare 

Below,  aloft,  about  her,  everywhere. 

The  Dauber,  scrubbing  out  the  roundhouse,  found 

Old  pantiles  pulped  among  the  mouldy  gear, 

Washed  underneath  the  bunks  and  long  since  drowned 

During  the  agony  of  the  Cape  Horn  year. 

He  sang  in  scrubbing,  for  he  had  done  with  fear — 

Fronted  the  worst  and  looked  it  in  the  face; 

He  had  got  manhood  at  the  testing-place. 

Singing  he  scrubbed,  passing  his  watch  below, 
Making  the  round-house  fair;  the  Bosun  watched, 
Bringing  his  knitting  slowly  to  the  toe. 
Sails  stretched  a  mizen  skysail  which  he  patched; 
They  thought  the  Dauber  was  a  bad  egg  hatched. 
"Daubs,"  said  the  Bosun  cheerly,  "can  you  knit? 
I've  made  a  Barney's  bull  of  this  last  bit." 

Then,  while  the  Dauber  counted,  Bosun  took 
Some  marline  from  his  pocket.    "Here,"  he  said, 
"You  want  to  know  square  sennit?    So  fash.    Look! 

[306! 


DAUBER 

Eight  foxes  take,  and  stop  the  ends  with  thread. 
I've  known  an  engineer  would  give  his  head 
To  know  square  sennit."    As  the  Bose  began, 
The  Dauber  felt  promoted  into  man. 

It  was  his  warrant  that  he  had  not  failed — 
That  the  most  hard  part  in  his  difficult  climb 
Had  not  been  past  attainment;  it  was  scaled: 
Safe  footing  showed  above  the  slippery  slime. 
He  had  emerged  out  of  the  iron  time, 
And  knew  that  he  could  compass  his  life's  scheme; 
He  had  the  power  sufficient  to  his  dream. 

Then  dinner  came,  and  now  the  sky  was  blue. 
The  ship  was  standing  north,  the  Horn  was  rounded; 
She  made  a  thundering  as  she  weltered  through. 
The  mighty  grey-backs  glittered  as  she  bounded. 
More  sail  was  piled  upon  her;  she  was  hounded 
North,  while  the  wind  came;  like  a  stag  she  ran 
Over  grey  hills  and  hollows  of  seas  wan. 

She  had  a  white  bone  in  her  mouth:  she  sped; 

Those  in  the  round-house  watched  her  as  they  ate 

Their  meal  of  pork-fat  fried  with  broken  bread. 

"Good  old!"  they  cried.    "She's  off;  she's  gathering  gait!" 

Her  track  was  whitening  like  a  Lammas  spate. 

"Good  old!"  they  cried.    "Oh,  give  her  cloth!    Hurray! 

For  three  weeks  more  to  Valparaiso  Bay! 

"She  smells  old  Vallipo,"  the  Bosun  cried. 
"We'll  be  inside  the  tier  in  three  weeks  more, 
Lying  at  double-moorings  where  they  ride 

[307] 


DAUBER 

Off  of  the  market,  half  a  mile  from  shore, 
And  bumboat  pan,  my  sons,  and  figs  galore, 
And  girls  in  black  mantillas  fit  to  make  a 
Poor  seaman  frantic  when  they  dance  the  cueca." 

Eight  bells  were  made,  the  watch  was  changed,  and  now 
The  Mate  spoke  to  the  Dauber:    "This  is  better. 
We'll  soon  be  getting  mudhooks  over  the  bow. 
She'll  make  her  passage  still  if  this'll  let  her. 
Oh,  run,  you  drogher!  dip  your  fo'c'sle  wetter. 
Well,  Dauber,  this  is  better  than  Cape  Horn. 
Them  topsails  made  you  wish  you'd  not  been  born." 

"Yes,  sir,"  the  Dauber  said.    "Now,"  said  the  Mate, 
"We've  got  to  smart  her  up.    Them  Cape  Horn  seas 
Have  made  her  paint-work  like  a  rusty  grate. 
Oh,  didn't  them  topsails  make  your  fishhooks  freeze? 
A  topsail  don't  pay  heed  to  'Won't  you,  please? ' 
Well,  you  have  seen  Cape  Horn,  my  son;  you've  learned, 
You've  dipped  your  hand  and  had  your  fingers  burned. 

"And  now  you'll  stow  that  folly,  trying  to  paint. 

You've  had  your  lesson;  you're  a  sailor  now. 

You  come  on  board  a  female  ripe  to  faint. 

All  sorts  of  slush  you'd  learned,  the  Lord  knows  how. 

Cape  Horn  has  sent  you  wisdom  over  the  bow 

If  you've  got  sense  to  take  it.    You're  a  sailor. 

My  God!  before  you  were  a  woman's  tailor. 

"So  throw  your  paints  to  blazes  and  have  done. 
Words  can't  describe  the  silly  things  you  did 
Sitting  before  your  easel  in  the  sun, 

[308] 


DAUBER 

With  all  your  colours  on  the  paint-box  lid. 

I  blushed  for  you  .  .  .  and  then  the  daubs  you  hid. 

My  God!  you'll  have  more  sense  now,  eh?    You've  quit?" 

"No  sir."    "You've  not?"    "No,  sir."    " God  give  you  wit. 

"I  thought  you'd  come  to  wisdom."    Thus  they  talked, 

While  the  great  clipper  took  her  bit  and  rushed 

Like  a  skin-glistening  stallion  not  yet  baulked, 

Till  fire-bright  water  at  her  swing  ports  gushed; 

Poising  and  bowing  down  her  fore-foot  crushed 

Bubble  on  glittering  bubble;  on  she  went 

The  Dauber  watched  her,  wondering  what  it  meant. 

To  come,  after  long  months,  at  rosy  dawn, 
Into  the  placid  blue  of  some  great  bay. 
Treading  the  quiet  water  like  a  fawn 
Ere  yet  the  morning  haze  was  blown  away. 
A  rose-flushed  figure  putting  by  the  grey, 
And  anchoring  there  before  the  city  smoke 
Rose,  or  the  church-bells  rang,  or  men  awoke. 

And  then,  in  the  first  light,  to  see  grow  clear 
That  long-expected  haven  filled  with  strangers — 
Alive  with  men  and  women;  see  and  hear 
Its  clattering  market  and  its  money-changers; 
And  hear  the  surf  beat,  and  be  free  from  dangers, 
And  watch  the  crinkled  ocean  blue  with  calm 
Drowsing  beneath  the  Trade,  beneath  the  palm. 

Hungry  for  that  he  worked;  the  hour  went  by, 
And  still  the  wind  grew,  still  the  clipper  strode, 
And  now  a  darkness  hid  the  western  sky, 

[309] 


DAUBER 

And  sprays  came  flicking  off  at  the  wind's  goad. 
She  stumbled  now,  feeling  her  sail  a  load. 
The  Mate  gazed  hard  to  windward,  eyed  his  sail, 
And  said  the  Horn  was  going  to  flick  her  tail. 

Boldly  he  kept  it  on  her  till  she  staggered, 
But  still  the  wind  increased;  it  grew,  it  grew, 
Darkening  the  sky,  making  the  water  haggard; 
Full  of  small  snow  the  mighty  wester  blew. 
"More  fun  for  little  fish-hooks,"  sighed  the  crew. 
They  eyed  the  taut  topgallants  stiff  like  steel; 
A  second  hand  was  ordered  to  the  wheel. 

The  Captain  eyed  her  aft,  sucking  his  lip, 
Feeling  the  sail  too  much,  but  yet  refraining 
From  putting  hobbles  on  the  leaping  ship, 
The  glad  sea-shattering  stallion,  halter-straining, 
Wing-musical,  uproarious,  and  complaining; 
But,  in  a  gust,  he  cocked  his  finger,  so: 
"You'd  better  take  them  off,  before  they  go." 

All  saw.    They  ran  at  once  without  the  word 
"Lee-ay!  Lee-ay!"    Loud  rang  the  clewline  cries; 
Sam  in  his  bunk  within  the  half-deck  heard, 
Stirred  in  his  sleep,  and  rubbed  his  drowsy  eyes. 
"There  go  the  lower  to'gallants."    Against  the  skies 
Rose  the  thin  bellying  strips  of  leaping  sail. 
The  Dauber  was  the  first  man  over  the  rail. 

Three  to  a  mast  they  ran;  it  was  a  race. 
"God!"  said  the  Mate;  "that  Dauber,  he  can  go." 
He  watched  the  runners  with  an  upturned  face 
[310] 


DAUBER 

Over  the  futtocks,  struggling  heel  to  toe, 
Up  to  the  topmast  cross-trees  into  the  blow 
Where  the  three  sails  were  leaping.    "Dauber  wins!" 
The  yards  were  reached,  and  now  the  race  begins. 

Which  three  will  furl  their  sail  first  and  come  down? 

Out  to  the  yard-arm  for  the  leech  goes  one, 

His  hair  blown  flagwise  from  a  hatless  crown, 

His  hands  at  work  like  fever  to  be  done. 

Out  of  the  gale  a  fiercer  fury  spun. 

The  three  sails  leaped  together,  yanking  high, 

Like  talons  darting  up  to  clutch  the  sky. 

The  Dauber  on  the  fore-topgallant  yard 

Out  at  the  weather  yard-arm  was  the  first 

To  lay  his  hand  upon  the  buntline-barred 

Topgallant  yanking  to  the  wester's  burst; 

He  craned  to  catch  the  leech;  his  comrades  cursed; 

One  at  the  buntlines,  one  with  oaths  observed, 

"The  eye  of  the  outer  jib-stay  isn't  served." 

"No,"  said  the  Dauber.    "No,"  the  man  replied. 
They  heaved,  stowing  the  sail,  not  looking  round, 
Panting,  but  full  of  life  and  eager-eyed; 
The  gale  roared  at  them  with  its  iron  sound. 
"That's  you,"  the  Dauber  said.     His  gasket  wound 
Swift  round  the  yard,  binding  the  sail  in  bands; 
There  came  a  gust,  the  sail  leaped  from  his  hands, 

So  that  he  saw  it  high  above  him,  grey, 
And  there  his  mate  was  falling;  quick  he  clutched 
An  arm  in  oilskins  swiftly  snatched  away. 
[311] 


DAUBER 

A  voice  said  "Christ!"  a  quick  shape  stooped  and  touched, 
Chain  struck  his  hands,  ropes  shot,  the  sky  was  smutched 
With  vast  black  fires  that  ran,  that  fell,  that  furled, 
And  then  he  saw  the  mast,  the  small  snow  hurled, 

The  fore-topgallant  yard  far,  far  aloft, 
And  blankness  settling  on  him  and  great  pain; 
And  snow  beneath  his  fingers  wet  and  soft, 
And  topsail  sheet-blocks  shaking  at  the  chain. 
He  knew  it  was  he  who  had  fallen;  then  his  brain 
Swirled  in  a  circle  while  he  watched  the  sky. 
Infinite  multitudes  of  snow  blew  by. 

"I  thought  it  was  Tom  who  fell,"  his  brain's  voice  said. 
"Down  on  the  bloody  deck!"  the  Captain  screamed. 
The  multitudinous  little  snow-flakes  sped. 
His  pain  was  real  enough,  but  all  else  seemed. 
Si  with  a  bucket  ran,  the  water  gleamed 
Tilting  upon  him;  others  came,  the  Mate  .    .    . 
They  knelt  with  eager  eyes  like  things  that  wait 

For  other  things  to  come.    He  saw  them  there. 
"It  will  go  on,"  he  murmured,  watching  Si. 
Colours  and  sounds  seemed  mixing  in  the  air, 
The  pain  was  stunning  him,  and  the  wind  went  by. 
"More  water,"  said  the  Mate.    "Here,  Bosun,  try. 
Ask  if  he's  got  a  message.    Hell,  he's  gone! 
Here,  Dauber,  paints."    He  said,  "It  will  go  on." 

Not  knowing  his  meaning  rightly,  but  he  spoke 
With  the  intenseness  of  a  fading  soul 
Whose  share  of  Nature's  fire  turns  to  smoke, 


DAUBER 

Whose  hand  on  Nature's  wheel  loses  control. 

The  eager  faces  glowered  red  like  coal. 

They  glowed,  the  great  storm  glowed,  the  sails,  the  mast. 

"It  will  go  on,"  he  cried  aloud,  and  passed. 

Those  from  the  yard  came  down  to  tell  the  tale. 
"He  almost  had  me  off,"  said  Tom.    "He  slipped. 
There  come  one  hell  of  a  jump-like  from  the  sail .    .    . 
He  clutched  at  me  and  almost  had  me  pipped. 
He  caught  my  'ris'band,  but  the  oilskin  ripped.   .    . 
It  tore  clean  off.    Look  here.    I  was  near  gone. 
I  made  a  grab  to  catch  him;  so  did  John. 

"I  caught  his  arm.    My  God!    I  was  near  done. 

He  almost  had  me  over;  it  was  near. 

He  hit  the  ropes  and  grabbed  at  every  one." 

"Well,"  said  the  Mate,  "we  cannot  leave  him  here. 

Run,  Si,  and  get  the  half-deck  table  clear. 

We'll  lay  him  there.    Catch  hold  there,  you,  and  you, 

He's  dead,  poor  son;  there's  nothing  more  to  do." 

• 

Night  fell,  and  all  night  long  the  Dauber  lay 

Covered  upon  the  table;  all  night  long 

The  pitiless  storm  exulted  at  her  prey, 

Huddling  the  waters  with  her  icy  thong. 

But  to  the  covered  shape  she  did  no  wrong. 

He  lay  beneath  the  sailcloth.    Bell  by  bell 

The  night  wore  through;  the  stars  rose,  the  stars  fell. 

Blowing  most  pitiless  cold  out  of  clear  sky 
The  wind  roared  all  night  long;  and  all  night  through 
The  green  seas  on  the  deck  went  washing  by, 

[313] 


DAUBER 

Flooding  the  half-deck;  bitter  hard  it  blew. 
But  little  of  it  all  the  Dauber  knew — 
The  sopping  bunks,  the  floating  chests,  the  wet, 
The  darkness,  and  the  misery,  and  the  sweat. 

He  was  off  duty.    So  it  blew  all  night, 

And  when  the  watches  changed  the  men  would  come 

Dripping  within  the  door  to  strike  a  light 

And  stare  upon  the  Dauber  lying  dumb, 

And  say,  "He  come  a  cruel  thump,  poor  chum." 

Or,  "He'd  a-been  a  fine  big  man;"  or,  "He  .    .    . 

A  smart  young  seaman  he  was  getting  to  be." 

Or,  "Damn  it  all,  it's  what  we've  all  to  face!  .    .   . 
I  knew  another  fellow  one  time  ..."  then 
Came  a  strange  tale  of  death  in  a  strange  place 
Out  on  the  sea,  in  ships,  with  wandering  men. 
In  many  ways  Death  puts  us  into  pen. 
The  reefers  came  down  tired  and  looked  and  slept. 
Below  the  skylight  little  dribbles  crept 

Along  the  painted  woodwork,  glistening,  slow, 
Following  the  roll  and  dripping,  never  fast, 
But  dripping  on  the  quiet  form  below, 
Like  passing  time  talking  to  time  long  past. 
And  all  night  long  "Ai,  ai!"  went  the  wind's  blast, 
And  creaming  water  swished  below  the  pale, 
Unheeding  body  stretched  beneath  the  sail. 

At  dawn  they  sewed  him  up,  and  at  eight  bells 
They  bore  him  to  the  gangway,  wading  deep, 
Through  the  green-clutching,  white-toothed  water-hells 
[314] 


DAUBER 

That  flung  his  carriers  over  in  their  sweep. 

They  laid  an  old  red  ensign  on  the  heap, 

And  all  hands  stood  bare-headed,  stooping,  swaying, 

Washed  by  the  sea  while  the  old  man  was  praying 

Out  of  a  borrowed  prayer-book.    At  a  sign 

They  twitched  the  ensign  back  and  tipped  the  grating 

A  creamier  bubbling  broke  the  bubbling  brine. 

The  muffled  figure  tilted  to  the  weighting; 

It  dwindled  slowly  down,  slowly  gyrating. 

Some  craned  to  see;  it  dimmed,  it  disappeared; 

The  last  green  milky  bubble  blinked  and  cleared. 

"Mister,  shake  out  your  reefs,"  the  Captain  called. 
"Out  topsail  reefs!"  the  Mate  cried;  then  all  hands 
Hurried,  the  great  sails  shook,  and  all  hands  hauled, 
Singing  that  desolate  song  of  lonely  lands, 
Of  how  a  lover  came  in  dripping  bands, 
Green  with  the  wet  and  cold,  to  tell  his  lover 
That  Death  was  in  the  sea,  and  all  was  over. 

Fair  came  the  falling  wind;  a  seaman  said 

The  Dauber  was  a  Jonah;  once  again 

The  clipper  held  her  course,  showing  red  lead, 

Shattering  the  sea-tops  into  golden  rain. 

The  waves  bowed  down  before  her  like  blown  grain; 

Onwards  she  thundered,  on;  her  voyage  was  short, 

Before  the  tier's  bells  rang  her  into  port. 

Cheerly  they  rang  her  in,  those  beating  bells, 
The  new-come  beauty  stately  from  the  sea, 
Whitening  the  blue  heave  of  the  drowsy  swells, 
[315! 


DAUBER 

Treading  the  bubbles  down.    With  three  times  three 
They  cheered  her  moving  beauty  in,  and  she 
Came  to  her  berth  so  noble,  so  superb; 
Swayed  like  a  queen,  and  answered  to  the  curb. 

Then  in  the  sunset's  flush  they  went  aloft, 

And  unbent  sails  in  that  most  lovely  hour, 

When  the  light  gentles  and  the  wind  is  soft, 

And  beauty  in  the  heart  breaks  like  a  flower. 

Working  aloft  they  saw  the  mountain  tower, 

Snow  to  the  peak;  they  heard  the  launch-men  shout; 

And  bright  along  the  bay  the  lights  came  out. 

And  then  the  night  fell  dark,  and  all  night  long 

The  pointed  mountain  pointed  at  the  stars, 

Frozen,  alert,  austere;  the  eagle's  song 

Screamed  from  her  desolate  screes  and  splintered  scars. 

On  her  intense  crags  where  the  air  is  sparse 

The  stars  looked  down;  their  many  golden  eyes 

Watched  her  and  burned,  burned  out,  and  came  to  rise. 

Silent  the  finger  of  the  summit  stood, 
Icy  in  pure,  thin  air,  glittering  with  snows. 
Then  the  sun's  coming  turned  the  peak  to  blood, 
And  in  the  rest-house  the  muleteers  arose. 
And  all  day  long,  where  only  the  eagle  goes, 
Stones,  loosened  by  the  sun,  fall;  the  stones  falling 
Fill  empty  gorge  on  gorge  with  echoes  calling. 


[316] 


EXPLANATIONS  OF  SOME  OF  THE  SEA  TERMS  USED  IN  THE  POEM 

Backstays. — Wire  ropes  which  support  the  masts  against  lateral  and  after 
strains. 

Barney's  bull. — A  figure  in  marine  proverb.    A  jewel  in  marine  repartee. 

Bells. — Two  bells  (one  forward,  one  aft)  which  are  struck  every  half-hour  in  a 
certain  manner  to  mark  the  passage  of  the  watches. 

Bills. — Strong  wooden  structures  (built  round  each  mast)  upon  which  running 
rigging  is  secured. 

Block. — A  sheaved  pulley. 

Boatswain. — A  supernumerary  or  idler,  generally  attached  to  the  mate's  watch, 
and  holding  considerable  authority  over  the  crew. 

Bouilli  tin. — Any  tin  that  contains,  or  has  contained,  preserved  meat. 

Bows. — The  forward  extremity  of  a  ship. 

Brace-blocks. — Pulleys  through  which  the  braces  travel. 

Braces. — Ropes  by  which  the  yards  are  inclined  forward  or  aft. 

Bumboat  pan. — Soft  bread  sold  by  the  bumboat  man,  a  kind  of  sea  costermon- 
ger  who  trades  with  ships  in  port. 

Bunt. — Those  cloths  of  a  square  sail  which  are  nearest  to  the  mast  when  the 
sail  is  set.  The  central  portion  of  a  furled  square  sail.  The  human  abdo- 
men (figuratively). 

Buntlines. — Ropes  which  help  to  confine  square  sails  to  the  yards  in  the  opera- 
tion of  furling. 

Chocks. — Wooden  stands  on  which  the  boats  rest. 

Cleats. — Iron  or  wooden  contrivances  to  which  ropes  may  be  secured. 

Clew-lines. — Ropes  by  which  the  lower  corners  of  square  sails  are  lifted. 

Clews. — The  lower  corners  of  square  sails. 

Clipper. — A  title  of  honour  given  to  ships  of  more  than  usual  speed  and  beauty. 

Coaming. — The  raised  rim  of  a  hatchway;  a  barrier  at  a  doorway  to  keep  water 

from  entering. 
Courses. — The  large  square  sails  set  upon  the  lower  yards  of  sailing  ships.    The 

mizen  course  is  called  the  "crojick." 
Cringled. — Fitted  with  iron  rings  or  cringles,  many  of  which  are  let  into  sails  or 

sail-roping  for  various  purposes. 
Crojick  (or  cross-jack). — A  square  sail  set  upon  the  lower  yard  of  the  mizen 

mast. 

[317] 


DAUBER 

Dungarees. — Thin  blue  or  khaki-coloured  overalls  made  from  cocoanut  fibre. 

Fairleads. — Rings  of  wood  or  iron  by  means  of  which  running  rigging  is  led  in 

any  direction. 
Fife-rails. — Strong  wooden  shelves  fitted  with  iron  pins,  to  which  ropes  may  be 

secured. 

Fish-hooks. — I.e.,  fingers. 

Foot-ropes. — Ropes  on  which  men  stand  when  working  aloft. 
Fo'c'sle. — The  cabin  or  cabins  in  which  the  men  are  berthed.    It  is  usually  an 

iron  deck-house  divided  through  the  middle  into  two  compartments  for 

the  two  watches,  and  fitted  with  wooden  bunks.     Sometimes  it  is  even 

fitted  with  lockers  and  an  iron  water-tank. 
Foxes. — Strands,  yarns,  or  arrangements  of  yarns  of  rope. 
Freeing-ports. — Iron  doors  in  the  ship's  side  which  open  outwards  to  free  the 

decks  of  water. 

Frap. — To  wrap  round  with  rope. 
Futtock-shrouds. — Iron  bars  to  which  the  topmast  rigging  is  secured.    As  they 

project  outward  and  upward  from  the  masts  they  are  difficult  to  clamber 

over. 

Galley. — The  ship's  kitchen. 

Gantline  (girtline). — A  rope  used  for  the  sending  of  sails  up  and  down  from 

aloft. 
Gaskets. — Ropes  by  which  the  sails  are  secured  in  furling. 

Half-deck. — A  cabin  or  apartment  in  which  the  apprentices  are  berthed.  Its 
situation  is  usually  the  ship's  waist;  but  it  is  sometimes  further  aft,  and 
occasionally  it  is  under  the  poop  or  even  right  forward  under  the  top- 
gallant fo'c'sle. 

Halliards. — Ropes  by  which  sails  are  hoisted. 

Harness-room. — An  office  or  room  from  which  the  salt  meat  is  issued,  and  in 
which  it  is  sometimes  stored. 

Hawse. — The  bows  or  forward  end  of  a  ship. 

Head. — The  forward  part  of  a  ship.  That  upper  edge  of  a  square  sail  which  is 
attached  to  the  yard. 

House-flag. — The  special  flag  of  the  firm  to  which  a  ship  belongs. 

Idlers. — The  members  of  the  round-house  mess,  generally  consisting  of  the 
carpenter,  cook,  sailmaker,  boatswain,  painter,  etc.,  are  known  as  the 
idlers. 

[318] 


EXPLANATIONS  OF  SOME  OF  THE  SEA  TERMS 

Jack  (or  jackstay). — An  iron  bar  (fitted  along  all  yards  in  sailing  ships)  to 
which  the  head  of  a  square  sail  is  secured  when  bent. 

Kites. — Light  upper  sails. 

Leeches. — The  outer  edges  of  square  sails.  In  furling  some  square  sails  the 
leech  is  dragged  inwards  till  it  lies  level  with  the  head  upon  the  surface  of 
the  yard.  This  is  done  by  the  first  man  who  gets  upon  the  yard,  beginning 
at  the  weather  side. 

Logship. — A  contrivance  by  which  a  ship's  speed  is  measured. 

Lower  topsail. — The  second  sail  from  the  deck  on  square  rigged  masts.  It  is 
a  very  strong,  important  sail. 

Marline. — Tarry  line  or  coarse  string  made  of  rope-yarns  twisted  together. 
Mate. — The  First  or  Chief  Mate  is  generally  called  the  Mate. 
Mizen-topmast-head. — The  summit  of  the  second  of  the  three  or  four  spars 

which  make  the  complete  mizen-mast. 
Mudhooks. — Anchors. 

Pins. — Iron  or  wooden  bars  to  which  running  rigging  is  secured. 

Pointing. — A  kind  of  neat  plait  with  which  ropes  are  sometimes  ended  off  or 

decorated. 
Poop-break. — The  forward  end  of  the  after  superstructure. 

Ratlines. — The  rope  steps  placed  across  the  shrouds  to  enable  the  seamen  to  go 

aloft. 

Reefers. — Apprentices. 
Reef-points. — Ropes  by  which  the  area  of  some  sails  may  be  reduced  in  the 

operation  of  reefing.    Reef-points  are  securely  fixed  to  the  sails  fitted  with 

them,  and  when  not  in  use  their  ends  patter  continually  upon  the  canvas 

with  a  gentle  drumming  noise. 
Reel. — A  part  of  the  machinery  used  with  a  logship. 
Round-house. — A  cabin  (of  all  shapes  except  round)  in  which  the  idlers  are 

berthed. 
Royals. — Light  upper  square  sails;  the  fourth,  fifth,  or  sixth  sails  from  the  deck 

according  to  the  mast's  rig. 

Sail-room. — A  large  room  or  compartment  in  which  the  ship's  sails  are  stored. 
"Sails." — The  sailmaker  is  meant. 
Scuttle-butt. — A  cask  containing  fresh  water. 

[3191 


DAUBER 

Shackles. — Rope  handles  for  a  sea-chest. 

Sheet-blocks. — Iron  blocks,  by  means  of  which  sails  are  sheeted  home.    In  any 

violent  wind  they  beat  upon  the  mast  with  great  rapidity  and  force. 
Sheets. — Ropes  or  chains  which  extend  the  lower  corners  of  square  sails  in  the 

operation  of  sheeting  home. 
Shifting  suits  (of  sails). — The  operation  of  removing  a  ship's  sails,  and  replacing 

them  with  others. 

Shrouds. — Wire  ropes  of  great  strength,  which  support  lateral  strains  on  masts. 
Shroud-screws. — Iron  contrivances  by  which  shrouds  are  hove  taut. 
Sidelights. — A  sailing  ship  carries  two  of  these  between  sunset  and  sunrise:  one 

green,  to  starboard;  one  red,  to  port. 

Sights. — Observations  to  help  in  the  finding  of  a  ship's  position. 
Skid. — A  wooden  contrivance  on  which  ship's  boats  rest. 
Skysails. — The  uppermost  square  sails;  the  fifth,  sixth,  or  seventh  sails  from 

the  deck  according  to  the  mast's  rig. 
Slatting. — The  noise  made  by  sails  flogging  in  the  wind. 
Slush. — Grease,  melted  fat. 

South-wester. — A  kind  of  oilskin  hat.    A  gale  from  the  south-west. 
Spit  brown. — To  chew  tobacco. 

Square  sennit. — A  cunning  plait  which  makes  a  four-square  bar. 
Staysails. — Fore  and  aft  sails  set  upon  the  stays  between  the  masts. 
Stow. — To  furl. 
Strop  (the,  putting  on). — A  strop  is  a  grument  or  rope  ring.    The  two  players 

kneel  down  facing  each  other,  the  strop  is  placed  over  their  heads,  and  the 

men  then  try  to  pull  each  other  over  by  the  strength  of  their  neck-muscles. 
Swing  ports. — Iron  doors  in  the  ship's  side  which  open  outwards  to  free  the 

decks  from  water. 

Tackle  (pronounced  "taykel"). — Blocks,  ropes,  pulleys,  etc. 

Take  a  caulk. — To  sleep  upon  the  deck. 

Topsails. — The  second  and  third  sails  from  the  deck  on  the  masts  of  a  modern 

square-rigged  ship  are  known  as  the  lower  and  upper  topsails. 
Trucks. — The  summits  of  the  masts. 

Upper  topsail. — The  third  square  sail  from  the  deck  on  the  masts  of  square- 
rigged  ships. 

Yards. — The  steel  or  wooden  spars  (placed  across  masts)  from  which  square 
sails  are  set. 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 


Between  the  barren  pasture  and  the  wood 

There  is  a  patch  of  poultry-stricken  grass, 

Where,  in  old  time,  Ryemeadows'  Farmhouse  stood, 

And  human  fate  brought  tragic  things  to  pass. 

A  spring  comes  bubbling  up  there,  cold  as  glass, 

It  bubbles  down,  crusting  the  leaves  with  lime, 

Babbling  the  self-same  song  that  it  has  sung  through  time. 

Ducks  gobble  at  the  selvage  of  the  brook, 
But  still  it  slips  away,  the  cold  hill-spring, 
Past  the  Ryemeadows'  lonely  woodland  nook 
Where  many  a  stubble  gray-goose  preens  her  wing, 
On,  by  the  woodland  side.    You  hear  it  sing 
Past  the  lone  copse  where  poachers  set  their  wires, 
Past  the  green  hill  once  grim  with  sacrificial  fires. 

Another  water  joins  it;  then  it  turns, 

Runs  through  the  Ponton  Wood,  still  turning  west, 

Past  foxgloves,  Canterbury  bells,  and  ferns, 

And  many  a  blackbird's,  many  a  thrush's  nest; 

The  cattle  tread  it  there;  then,  with  a  zest 

It  sparkles  out,  babbling  its  pretty  chatter 

Through  Foxholes  Farm,  where  it  gives  white-faced  cattle  water. 

Under  the  road  it  runs,  and  now  it  slips 
Past  the  great  ploughland,  babbling,  drop  and  linn, 
To  the  moss'd  stumps  of  elm  trees  which  it  lips, 

1 3231 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

And  blackberry-bramble-trails  where  eddies  spin. 
Then,  on  its  left,  some  short-grassed  fields  begin, 
Red-clayed  and  pleasant,  which  the  young  spring  fills 
With  the  never-quiet  joy  of  dancing  daffodils. 

There  are  three  fields  where  daffodils  are  found; 

The  grass  is  dotted  blue-gray  with  their  leaves; 

Their  nodding  beauty  shakes  along  the  ground 

Up  to  a  fir-clump  shutting  out  the  eaves 

Of  an  old  farm  where  always  the  wind  grieves 

High  in  the  fir  boughs,  moaning;  people  call 

This  farm  The  Roughs,  but  some  call  it  the  Poor  Maid's  Hall. 

There,  when  the  first  green  shoots  of  tender  corn 
Show  on  the  plough;  when  the  first  drift  of  white 
Stars  the  black  branches  of  the  spiky  thorn, 
And  afternoons  are  warm  and  evenings  light, 
The  shivering  daffodils  do  take  delight, 
Shaking  beside  the  brook,  and  grass  comes  green, 
And  blue  dog-violets  come  and  glistening  celandine. 

And  there  the  pickers  come,  picking  for  town 

Those  dancing  daffodils;  all  day  they  pick; 

Hard-featured  women,  weather-beaten  brown, 

Or  swarthy-red,  the  colour  of  old  brick. 

At  noon  they  break  their  meats  under  the  rick. 

The  smoke  of  all  three  farms  lifts  blue  in  air 

As  though  man's  passionate  mind  had  never  suffered  there. 

And  sometimes  as  they  rest  an  old  man  comes, 
Shepherd  or  carter,  to  the  hedgerow-side, 
And  looks  upon  their  gangrel  tribe,  and  hums, 

[324! 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

And  thinks  all  gone  to  wreck  since  master  died; 
And  sighs  over  a  passionate  harvest-tide 
Which  Death's  red  sickle  reaped  under  those  hills, 
There,  in  the  quiet  fields  among  the  daffodils. 

When  this  most  tragic  fate  had  time  and  place, 
And  human  hearts  and  minds  to  show  it  by, 
Ryemeadows'  Farmhouse  was  in  evil  case: 
Its  master,  Nicholas  Gray,  was  like  to  die. 
He  lay  in  bed,  watching  the  windy  sky, 
Where  all  the  rooks  were  homing  on  slow  wings, 
Cawing,  or  blackly  circling  in  enormous  rings. 

With  a  sick  brain  he  watched  them;  then  he  took 

Paper  and  pen,  and  wrote  in  straggling  hand 

(Like  spider's  legs,  so  much  his  fingers  shook) 

Word  to  the  friends  who  held  the  adjoining  land, 

Bidding  them  come;  no  more  he  could  command 

His  fingers  twitching  to  the  feebling  blood; 

He  watched  his  last  day's  sun  dip  down  behind  the  wood, 

While  all  his  life's  thoughts  surged  about  his  brain: 
Memories  and  pictures  clear,  and  faces  known — 
Long  dead,  perhaps;  he  was  a  child  again, 
Treading  a  threshold  in  the  dark  alone. 
Then  back  the  present  surged,  making  him  moan. 
He  asked  if  Keir  had  come  yet.    "No,"  they  said. 
'NorOccleve?"    "No."    He  moaned:   "Come  soon  or  I'll  be 
dead." 

The  names  like  live  things  wandered  in  his  mind : 
"Charles  Occleve  of  The  Roughs,"  and  "Rowland  Keir — 
Keir  of  Foxholes";  but  his  brain  was  blind, 

[325! 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

A  blind  old  alley  in  the  storm  of  the  year, 
Baffling  the  traveller  life  with  "No  way  here," 
For  all  his  lantern  raised;  life  would  not  tread 
Within  that  brain  again,  along  those  pathways  red. 

Soon  all  was  dimmed  but  in  the  heaven  one  star. 
"I'll  hold  to  that,"  he  said  then  footsteps  stirred. 
Down  in  the  court  a  voice  said,  "Here  they  are," 
And  one,  "He's  almost  gone."    The  sick  man  heard. 
"Oh  God,  be  quick,"  he  moaned.    "Only  one  word. 
Keir!    Occleve!    Let  them  come.    Why  don't  they  come  ? 
Why  stop  to  tell  them  that? — the  devil  strike  you  dumb. 

"I'm  neither  doll  nor  dead;  come  in,  come  in. 
Curse  you,  you  women,  quick,"  the  sick  man  flamed. 
"I  shall  be  dead  before  I  can  begin. 
A  sick  man's  womaned-mad,  and  nursed  and  darned." 
Death  had  him  by  the  throat;  his  wrath  was  tamed. 
"Come  in,"  he  fumed;  "stop  muttering  at  the  door." 
The  friends  came  in;  a  creaking  ran  across  the  floor. 

"Now,  Nick,  how  goes  it,  man?"  said  Occleve.    "Oh," 

The  dying  man  replied,  "I  am  dying;  past; 

Mercy  of  God,  I  die,  I'm  going  to  go. 

But  I  have  much  to  tell  you  if  I  last. 

Come  near  me,  Occleve,  Keir.    I  am  sinking  fast, 

And  all  my  kin  are  corning;  there,  look  there. 

All  the  old,  long  dead  Grays  are  moving  in  the  air. 

"It  is  my  Michael  that  I  called  you  for: 
My  son,  abroad,  at  school  still,  over  sea. 
See  if  that  hag  is  listening  at  the  door. 

[326] 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

No?    Shut  the  door;  don't  lock  it,  let  it  be. 
No  faith  is  kept  to  dying  men  like  me. 
I  am  dipped  deep  and  dying,  bankrupt,  done; 
I  leave  not  even  a  farthing  to  my  lovely  son. 

"Neighbours,  these  many  years  our  children  played, 

Down  in  the  fields  together,  down  the  brook; 

Your  Mary,  Keir,  the  girl,  the  bonny  maid, 

And  Occleve's  Lion,  always  at  his  book; 

Them  and  my  Michael:  dear,  what  joy  they  took 

Picking  the  daffodils;  such  friends  they've  been — 

My  boy  and  Occleve's  boy  and  Mary  Keir  for  queen. 

"I  had  made  plans;  but  I  am  done  with,  I. 

Give  me  the  wine.    I  have  to  ask  you  this: 

I  can  leave  Michael  nothing,  and  I  die. 

By  all  our  friendship  used  to  be  and  is, 

Help  him,  old  friends.    Don't  let  my  Michael  miss 

The  schooling  I've  begun.    Give  him  his  chance. 

He  does  not  know  I  am  ill;  I  kept  him  there  in  France. 

"Saving  expense;  each  penny  counts.    Oh,  friends, 

Help  him  another  year;  help  him  to  take 

His  full  diploma  when  the  training  ends, 

So  that  my  ruin  won't  be  his.    Oh,  make 

This  sacrifice  for  our  old  friendship's  sake, 

And  God  will  pay  you;  for  I  see  God's  hand 

Pass  in  most  marvellous  ways  on  souls :  I  understand 

"How  just  rewards  are  given  for  man's  deeds 

And  judgment  strikes  the  soul.    The  wine  there,  wine. 

Life  is  the  daily  thing  man  never  heeds. 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

It  is  ablaze  with  sign  and  countersign. 

Michael  will  not  forget:  that  son  of  mine 

Is  a  rare  son,  my  friends;  he  will  go  far. 

I  shall  behold  his  course  from  where  the  blessed  are." 

"Why,  Nick,"  said  Occleve,  "come,  man.    Gather  hold. 
Rouse  up.    You've  given  way.    If  times  are  bad, 
Times  must  be  bettering,  master;  so  be  bold; 
Lift  up  your  spirit,  Nicholas,  and  be  glad. 
Michael's  as  much  to  me  as  my  dear  lad. 
I'll  see  he  takes  his  school."    "And  I,"  said  Keir. 
"Set  you  no  keep  by  that,  but  be  at  rest,  my  dear. 

"We'll  see  your  Michael  started  on  the  road." 
"But  there,"  said  Occleve,  "Nick's  not  going  to  die. 
Out  of  the  ruts,  good  nag,  now;  zook  the  load. 
Pull  up,  man.    Death!    Death  and  the  fiend  defy. 
We'll  bring  the  farm  round  for  you,  Keir  and  I. 
Put  heart  at  rest  and  get  your  health."    "Ah,  no," 
The  sick  man  faintly  answered.  "I  have  got  to  go." 

Still  troubled  in  his  mind,  the  sick  man  tossed. 

"Old  friends,"  he  said,  "I  once  had  hoped  to  see 

Mary  and  Michael  wed,  but  fates  are  crossed, 

And  Michael  starts  with  nothing  left  by  me. 

Still,  if  he  loves  her,  will  you  let  it  be  ? 

So  in  the  grave,  maybe,  when  I  am  gone, 

I'll  know  my  hope  fulfilled,  and  see  the  plan  go  on." 

"I  judge  by  hearts,  not  money,"  answered  Keir. 
"If  Michael  suits  in  that  and  suits  my  maid, 
I  promise  you,  let  Occleve  witness  here 

(3*81 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

He  shall  be  free  for  me  to  drive  his  trade. 
Free,  ay,  and  welcome,  too.    Be  not  afraid, 
I'll  stand  by  Michael  as  I  hope  some  friend 
Will  stand  beside  my  girl  in  case  my  own  life  end." 

"And  I,"  said  Occleve;  but  the  sick  man  seemed 

Still  ill  at  ease.    "My  friends,"  he  said,  "my  friends, 

Michael  may  come  to  all  that  I  have  dreamed, 

But  he's  a  wild  yarn  full  of  broken  ends. 

So  far  his  life  in  France  has  made  amends. 

God  grant  he  steady  so;  but  girls  and  drink 

Once  brought  him  near  to  hell,  aye,  to  the  very  brink. 

"There  is  a  running  vein  of  wildness  in  him: 

Wildness  and  looseness  both,  which  vices  make 

That  woman's  task  a  hard  one  who  would  win  him: 

His  life  depends  upon  the  course  you  take. 

He  is  a  fiery-mettled  colt  to  break, 

And  one  to  curb,  one  to  be  curbed,  remember." 

The  dying  voice  died  down,  the  fire  left  the  ember. 

But  once  again  it  flamed.    "Ah  me,"  he  cried; 

"Our  secret  sins  take  body  in  our  sons, 

To  haunt  our  age  with  what  we  put  aside. 

I  was  a  devil  for  the  women  once. 

He  is  as  I  was.    Beauty  like  the  sun's; 

Within,  all  water;  minded  like  the  moon. 

Go  now.    I  sinned.    I  die.    I  shall  be  punished  soon." 

The  two  friends  tiptoed  to  the  room  below. 
There,  till  the  woman  came  to  them,  they  told 
Of  brave  adventures  in  the  long  ago, 
(329} 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

Ere  Nick  and  they  had  thought  of  growing  old; 

Snipe-shooting  in  the  marshlands  in  the  cold, 

Old  soldiering  days  as  yeomen,  days  at  fairs, 

Days  that  had  sent  Nick  tired  to  those  self-same  chairs. 

They  vowed  to  pay  the  schooling  for  his  son. 
They  talked  of  Michael,  testing  men's  report, 
How  the  young  student  was  a  lively  one, 
Handsome  and  passionate  both,  and  fond  of  sport, 
Eager  for  fun,  quick-witted  in  retort. 
The  girls'  hearts  quick  to  see  him  cocking  by, 
Young  April  on  a  blood  horse,  with  a  roving  eye. 

And,  as  they  talked  about  the  lad,  Keir  asked 

If  Occleve's  son  had  not,  at  one  time,  been 

Heartsick  for  Mary,  though  with  passion  masked. 

"Ay,"  Occleve  said:  "Time  was.    At  seventeen. 

It  took  him  hard,  it  ran  his  ribs  all  lean, 

All  of  a  summer;  but  it  passed,  it  died. 

Her  fancying  Michael  better  touched  my  Lion's  pride." 

Mice  flickered  from  the  wainscot  to  the  press, 
Nibbling  at  crumbs,  rattling  to  shelter,  squeaking. 
Each  ticking  in  the  clock's  womb  made  life  less; 
Oil  slowly  dropped  from  where  the  lamp  was  leaking. 
At  times  the  old  nurse  set  the  staircase  creaking, 
Harked  to  the  sleeper's  breath,  made  sure,  returned, 
Answered  the  questioning  eyes,  then  wept.     The  great  stars 
burned. 

"Listen,"  said  Occleve,  "listen,  Rowland.     Hark." 
"It's  Mary,  come  with  Lion,"  answered  Keir: 
"They  said  they'd  come  together  after  dark." 

[330] 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

He  went  to  door  and  called  "Come  in,  my  dear." 
The  burning  wood  log  blazed  with  sudden  cheer, 
So  that  a  glowing  lighted  all  the  room. 
His  daughter  Mary  entered  from  the  outer  gloom. 

The  wind  had  brought  the  blood  into  her  cheek, 
Heightening  her  beauty,  but  her  great  grey  eyes 
Were  troubled  with  a  fear  she  could  not  speak. 
Firm,  scarlet  lips  she  had,  not  made  for  lies. 
Gentle  she  seemed,  pure-natured,  thoughtful,  wise, 
And  when  she  asked  what  turn  the  sickness  took, 
Her  voice's  passing  pureness  on  a  low  note  shook. 

Young  Lion  Occleve  entered  at  her  side, 

A  well-built,  clever  man,  unduly  grave, 

One  whose  repute  already  travelled  wide 

For  skill  in  breeding  beasts.    His  features  gave 

Promise  of  brilliant  mind,  far-seeing,  brave, 

One  who  would  travel  far.     His  manly  grace 

Grew  wistful  when  his  eyes  were  turned  on  Mary's  face. 

"Tell  me,"  said  Mary,  "what  did  doctor  say? 

How  ill  is  he?    What  chance  of  life  has  he? 

The  cowman  said  he  couldn't  last  the  day, 

And  only  yesterday  he  joked  with  me." 

"We  must  be  meek,"  the  nurse  said;  "such  things  be." 

"There's  little  hope,"  said  Keir;  "he's  dying,  sinking." 

"Dying  without  his  son,"  the  young  girl's  heart  was  thinking. 

"Does  Michael  know?"  she  asked.     "Has  he  been  called?" 

A  slow  confusion  reddened  on  the  faces, 

As  when  one  light  neglect  leaves  friends  appalled. 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

And  as  he  talked  his  spirit  stood  apart, 
Old  passion  for  her  made  his  being  smart, 
Rankling  within.    Her  thought  for  Michael  ran 
Like  glory  and  like  poison  through  his  inner  man. 

"This  will  break  Michael's  heart,"  he  said  at  length. 
"Poor  Michael,"  she  replied;  "they  wasted  hours. 
He  loved  his  father  so.    God  give  him  strength. 
This  is  a  cruel  thing  this  life  of  ours." 
The  windy  woodland  glimmered  with  shut  flowers, 
White  wood  anemones  that  the  wind  blew  down. 
The  valley  opened  wide  beyond  the  starry  town. 

"Ten,"  clanged  out  of  the  belfry.    Lion  stayed 

One  hand  upon  a  many-carven  bole. 

"Mary,"  he  said.    "Dear,  my  beloved  maid, 

I  love  you,  dear  one,  from  my  very  soul." 

Her  beauty  in  the  dusk  destroyed  control. 

"Mary,  my  dear,  I've  loved  you  all  these  years." 

"Oh,  Lion,  no,"  she  murmured,  choking  back  her  tears. 

"I  love  you,"  he  repeated.    "Five  years  since 

This  thing  began  between  us:  every  day 

Oh  sweet,  the  thought  of  you  has  made  me  wince; 

The  thought  of  you,  my  sweet,  the  look,  the  way. 

It's  only  you,  whether  I  work  or  pray, 

You  and  the  hope  of  you,  sweet  you,  dear  you. 

I  never  spoke  before;  now  it  has  broken  through. 

"Oh,  my  beloved,  can  you  care  for  me?" 
She  shook  her  head.    "O,  hush,  oh,  Lion  dear, 
Don't  speak  of  love,  for  it  can  never  be 

(333) 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

"No  time  to  think,"  said  nurse,  "in  such  like  cases." 
Old  Occleve  stooped  and  fumbled  with  his  laces. 
"Let  be,"  he  said;  "there's  always  time  for  sorrow. 
He  could  not  come  in  time;  he  shall  be  called  to-morrow." 

"There  is  a  chance,"  she  cried,  "there  always  is. 

Poor  Mr.  Gray  might  rally,  might  live  on. 

Oh,  I  must  telegraph  to  tell  him  this. 

Would  it  were  day  still  and  the  message  gone." 

She  rose,  her  breath  came  fast,  her  grey  eyes  shone. 

She  said,  "Come  Lion;  see  me  through  the  wood. 

Michael  must  know."  Keir  sighed.     "Girl,  it  will  do  no  good. 

"Our  friend  is  on  the  brink  and  almost  passed." 

"All  the  more  need,"  she  said,  "for  word  to  go; 

Michael  could  well  arrive  before  the  last. 

He'd  see  his  father's  face  at  least.    I  know 

The  office  may  be  closed ;  but  even  so, 

Father,  I  must.    Come,  Lion."    Out  they  went, 

Into  the  roaring  woodland  where  the  saplings  bent. 

Like  breakers  of  the  sea  the  leafless  branches 

Swished,  bowing  down,  rolling  like  water,  roaring 

Like  the  sea's  welcome  when  the  clipper  launches 

And  full  affronted  tideways  call  to  warring. 

Daffodils  glimmered  underfoot,  the  flooring 

Of  the  earthy  woodland  smelt  like  torn-up  moss; 

Stones  in  the  path  showed  white,  and  rabbits  ran  across. 

They  climbed  the  rise  and  struck  into  the  ride, 
Talking  of  death,  while  Lion,  sick  at  heart, 
Thought  of  the  woman  walking  at  his  side, 

[332] 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

Between  us  two,  never,  however  near. 
Come  on,  my  friend,  we  must  not  linger  here." 
White  to  the  lips  she  spoke;  he  saw  her  face 
White  in  the  darkness  by  him  in  the  windy  place. 

"Mary,  in  time  you  could,  perhaps,"  he  pleaded. 
"No,"  she  replied,  "no,  Lion;  never,  no." 
Over  the  stars  the  boughs  burst  and  receded. 
The  nobleness  of  Love  comes  in  Love's  woe. 
"God  bless  you  then,  beloved,  let  us  go. 
Come  on,"  he  said,  "  and  if  I  gave  you  pain, 
Forget  it,  dear;  be  sure  I  never  will  again." 

They  stepped  together  down  the  ride,  their  feet 

Slipped  on  loose  stones.    Little  was  said;  his  fate, 

Staked  on  a  kingly  cast,  had  met  defeat. 

Nothing  remained  but  to  endure  and  wait. 

She  was  still  wonderful,  and  life  still  great. 

Great  in  that  bitter  instant  side  by  side, 

Hallowed  by  thoughts  of  death  there  in  the  blinded  ride. 

He  heard  her  breathing  by  him,  saw  her  face 

Dim,  looking  straight  ahead;  her  feet  by  his 

Kept  time  beside  him,  giving  life  a  grace; 

Night  made  the  moment  full  of  mysteries. 

"You  are  beautiful,"  he  thought;  "and  life  is  this: 

Walking  a  windy  night  while  men  are  dying, 

To  cry  for  one  to  come,  and  none  to  heed  our  crying." 

"Mary,"  he  said,  "are  you  in  love  with  him, 
With  Michael?    Tell  me.    We  are  friends,  we  three." 
They  paused  to  face  each  other  in  the  dim. 

[3341 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

"Tell  me,"  he  urged.    "Yes,  Lion,"  answered  she; 
"I  love  him,  but  he  does  not  care  for  me. 
I  trust  your  generous  mind,  dear;  now  you  know, 
You,  who  have  been  my  brother,  how  our  fortunes  go. 

"Now  come;  the  message  waits."    The  heavens  cleared, 

Cleared,  and  were  starry  as  they  trod  the  ride. 

Chequered  by  tossing  boughs  the  moon  appeared; 

A  whistling  reached  them  from  the  Hall  House  side; 

Climbing,  the  whistler  came.    A  brown  owl  cried. 

The  whistler  paused  to  answer,  sending  far 

That  haunting,  hunting  note.    The  echoes  laughed  Aha! 

Something  about  the  calling  made  them  start. 
Again  the  owl  note  laughed;  the  ringing  cry 
Made  the  blood  quicken  within  Mary's  heart. 
Like  a  dead  leaf  a  brown  owl  floated  by. 
"Michael?  "said  Lion.    "Hush."    An  owl's  reply 
Came  down  the  wind;  they  waited;  then  the  man, 
Content,  resumed  his  walk,  a  merry  song  began. 

"Michael,"  they  cried  together.    "Michael,  you?" 

"Who  calls?"  the  singer  answered.    "Where  away? 

Is  that  you,  Mary?"    Then  with  glad  halloo 

The  singer  ran  to  meet  them  on  the  way. 

It  was  their  Michael;  in  the  moonlight  grey, 

They  made  warm  welcome;  under  tossing  boughs, 

They  met  and  told  the  fate  darkening  Ryemeadows'  House. 

As  they  returned  at  speed  their  comrade  spoke 
Strangely  and  lightly  of  his  coming  home, 
Saying  that  leaving  France  had  been  a  joke, 

[3351 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

But  that  events  now  proved  him  wise  to  come. 

Down  the  steep  'scarpment  to  the  house  they  clomb, 

And  Michael  faltered  in  his  pace;  they  heard 

How  dumb  rebellion  in  the  much-wronged  cattle  stirred. 

And  as  they  came,  high,  from  the  sick  man's  room, 
Old  Gray  burst  out  a-singing  of  the  light 
Streaming  upon  him  from  the  outer  gloom, 
As  his  eyes  dying  gave  him  mental  sight. 
"Triumphing  swords,"  he  carolled,  "in  the  bright; 
Oh  fire,  Oh  beauty  fire,"  and  fell  back  dead. 
Occleve  took  Michael  up  to  kneel  beside  the  bed. 

So  the  night  passed;  the  noisy  wind  went  down; 
The  half-burnt  moon  her  starry  trackway  rode. 
Then  the  first  fire  was  lighted  in  the  town, 
And  the  first  carter  stacked  his  early  load. 
Upon  the  farm's  drawn  blinds  the  morning  glowed; 
And  down  the  valley,  with  little  clucks  and  trills, 
The  dancing  waters  danced  by  dancing  daffodils. 

II 

They  buried  Gray;  his  gear  was  sold;  his  farm 

Passed  to  another  tenant.    Thus  men  go; 

The  dropped  sword  passes  to  another  arm, 

And  different  waters  in  the  river  flow. 

His  two  old  faithful  friends  let  Michael  know 

His  father's  ruin  and  their  promise.     Keir 

Brought  him  to  stay  at  Foxholes  till  a  path  was  clear. 

There,  when  the  sale  was  over,  all  three  met 
To  talk  about  the  future,  and  to  find 
Upon  what  project  Michael's  heart  was  set. 

[3361 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

Gentle  the  two  old  men  were,  thoughtful,  kind. 

They  urged  the  youth  to  speak  his  inmost  mind, 

For  they  would  compass  what  he  chose;  they  told 

How  he  might  end  his  training;  they  would  find  the  gold. 

"Thanks,  but  I  cannot,"  Michael  said.    He  smiled. 

"Cannot.    They've  kicked  me  out.    I've  been  expelled; 

Kicked  out  for  good  and  all  for  being  wild. 

They  stopped  our  evening  leave,  and  I  rebelled. 

I  am  a  gentle  soul  until  compelled, 

And  then  I  put  my  ears  back.    The  old  fool 

Said  that  my  longer  presence  might  inflame  the  school. 

"And  I  am  glad,  for  I  have  had  my  fill 

Of  farming  by  the  book  with  those  old  fools, 

Exhausted  talkatives  whose  blood  is  still, 

Who  strive  to  bind  a  living  man  with  rules. 

This  fettered  kind  of  life,  these  laws,  these  schools, 

These  codes,  these  checks,  what  are  they  but  the  clogs 

Made  by  collected  sheep  to  mortify  the  dogs? 

"And  I  have  had  enough  of  them;  and  now 
I  make  an  end  of  them.    I  want  to  go 
Somewhere  where  man  has  never  used  a  plough, 
Nor  ever  read  a  book;  where  clean  winds  blow, 
And  passionate  blood  is  not  its  owner's  foe, 
And  land  is  for  the  asking  for  it.    There 
Man  can  create  a  life  and  have  the  open  air. 

"The  River  Plate's  the  country.    There,  I  know, 
A  man  like  me  can  thrive.    There,  on  the  range, 
The  cattle  pass  like  tides;  they  ebb  and  flow, 

[3371 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

And  life  is  changeless  in  unending  change, 
And  one  can  ride  all  day,  and  all  day  strange, 
Strange,  never  trodden,  fenceless,  waiting  there, 
To  feed  unending  cattle  for  the  men  who  dare. 

"There  I  should  have  a  chance;  this  land's  too  old.'* 
Old  Occleve  grunted  at  the  young  man's  mood; 
Keir,  who  was  losing  money,  thought  him  bold, 
And  thought  the  scheme  for  emigration  good. 
He  said  that,  if  he  wished  to  go,  he  should. 
South  to  the  pampas,  there  to  learn  the  trade. 
Old  Occleve  thought  it  mad,  but  no  objection  made. 

So  it  was  settled  that  the  lad  should  start, 

A  place  was  found  for  him,  a  berth  was  taken; 

And  Michael's  beauty  plucked  at  Mary's  heart, 

And  now  the  fabric  of  their  lives  was  shaken: 

For  now  the  hour's  nearness  made  love  waken 

In  Michael's  heart  for  Mary.    Now  Time's  guile 

Granted  her  passionate  prayer,  nor  let  her  see  his  smile. 

Granted  his  greatest  gifts;  a  night  time  came 

When  the  two  walking  down  the  water  learned 

That  life  till  then  had  only  been  a  name; 

Love  had  unsealed  their  spirits:  they  discerned. 

Mutely,  at  moth  time  there,  their  spirits  yearned. 

"I  shall  be  gone  three  years,  dear  soul,"  he  said. 

"Dear,  will  you  wait  for  me? "    "I  will,"  replied  the  maid. 

So  troth  was  pledged  between  them.    Keir  received 

Michael  as  Mary's  suitor,  feeling  sure 

That  the  lad's  fortunes  would  be  soon  retrieved, 

[338] 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

Having  a  woman's  promise  as  a  lure. 

The  three  years'  wait  would  teach  them  to  endure. 

He  bade  them  love  and  prosper  and  be  glad. 

And  fast  the  day  drew  near  that  was  to  take  the  lad. 

Cowslips  had  come  along  the  bubbling  brook, 

Cowslips  and  oxlips  rare,  and  in  the  wood 

The  many-blossomed  stalks  of  bluebells  shook; 

The  outward  beauty  fed  their  mental  mood. 

Thought  of  the  parting  stabbed  her  as  he  wooed, 

Walking  the  brook  with  her,  and  day  by  day, 

The  precious  fortnight's  grace  dropped,  wasted,  slipped  away. 

Till  only  one  clear  day  remained  to  her: 

One  whole  clear,  precious  day,  before  he  sailed. 

Some  forty  hours,  no  more,  to  minister 

To  months  of  bleakness  before  which  she  quailed. 

Mist  rose  along  the  brook;  the  corncrake  railed; 

Dim  red  the  sunset  burned.    He  bade  her  come 

Into  the  wood  with  him;  they  went,  the  night  came  dumb. 

Still  as  high  June,  the  very  water's  noise 

Seemed  but  a  breathing  of  the  earth;  the  flowers 

Stood  in  the  dim  like  souls  without  a  voice. 

The  wood's  conspiracy  of  occult  powers 

Drew  all  about  them,  and  for  hours  on  hours 

No  murmur  shook  the  oaks,  the  stars  did  house 

Their  lights  like  lamps  upon  those  never-moving  boughs. 

Under  their  feet  the  woodland  sloped  away 
Down  to  the  valley,  where  the  farmhouse  lights 
Were  sparks  in  the  expanse  the  moon  made  grey. 

[1391 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

June's  very  breast  was  bare  this  night  of  nights. 
Moths  blundered  up  against  them,  greys  and  whites 
Moved  on  the  darkness  where  the  moths  were  out, 
Nosing  for  sticky  sweet  with  trembling  uncurled  snout. 

But  all  this  beauty  was  but  music  played, 
While  the  high  pageant  of  their  hearts  prepared. 
A  spirit  thrilled  between  them,  man  to  maid, 
Mind  flowed  in  mind,  the  inner  heart  was  bared, 
They  needed  not  to  tell  how  much  each  cared; 
All  the  soul's  strength  was  at  the  other's  soul. 
Flesh  was  away  awhile,  a  glory  made  them  whole. 

Nothing  was  said  by  them;  they  understood, 
They  searched  each  other's  eyes  without  a  sound. 
Alone  with  moonlight  in  the  heart  of  the  wood, 
Knowing  the  stars  and  all  the  soul  of  the  ground. 
"Mary,"  he  murmured.    "Come."    His  arms  went  round, 
A  white  moth  glimmered  by,  the  woods  were  hushed; 
The  rose  at  Mary's  bosom  dropped  its  petals,  crushed. 

No  word  profaned  the  peace  of  that  glad  giving, 

But  the  warm  dimness  of  the  night  stood  still, 

Drawing  all  beauty  to  the  point  of  living, 

There  in  the  beech-tree's  shadow  on  the  hill. 

Spirit  to  spirit  murmured;  mingling  will 

Made  them  one  being;  Time's  decaying  thought 

Fell  from  them  like  a  rag;  it  was  the  soul  they  sought. 

The  moonlight  found  an  opening  in  the  boughs; 
It  entered  in,  it  filled  that  sacred  place 
With  consecration  on  the  throbbing  brows; 

[340] 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

It  came  with  benediction  and  with  grace. 
A  whispering  came  from  face  to  yearning  face: 
"Beloved,  will  you  wait  for  me?"    "My  own." 
"I  shall  be  gone  three  years,  you  will  be  left  alone; 

"You'll  trust  and  wait  for  me?"    "Yes,  yes,"  she  s  ghed; 
She  would  wait  any  term  of  years,  all  time — 
So  faithful  to  first  love  these  souls  abide, 
Carrying  a  man's  soul  with  them  as  they  climb. 
Life  was  all  flower  to  them;  the  church  bells'  chime 
Rang  out  the  burning  hour  ere  they  had  sealed 
Love's  charter  there  below  the  June  sky's  starry  field. 

Sweetly  the  church  bells'  music  reached  the  wood, 
Chiming  an  old  slow  tune  of  some  old  hymn, 
Calling  them  back  to  life  from  where  they  stood 
Under  the  moonlit  beech-tree  grey  and  dim. 
"Mary,"  he  murmured;  pressing  close  to  him, 
Her  kiss  came  on  the  gift  he  gave  her  there, 
A  silken  scarf  that  bore  her  name  worked  in  his  hair. 

But  still  the  two  affixed  their  hands  and  seals 

To  a  life  compact  witnessed  by  the  sky, 

Where  the  great  planets  drove  their  glittering  wheels, 

Bringing  conflicting  fate,  making  men  die. 

They  loved,  and  she  would  wait,  and  he  would  try. 

"Oh,  beauty  of  my  love,"  "My  lovely  man." 

So  beauty  made  them  noble  for  their  little  span. 

Time  cannot  pause,  however  dear  the  wooer; 
The  moon  declined,  the  sunrise  came,  the  hours, 
Left  to  the  lovers,  dwindled  swiftly  fewer, 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

Even  as  the  seeds  from  dandelion-flowers 
Blow,  one  by  one,  until  the  bare  stalk  cowers, 
And  the  June  grass  grows  over;  even  so 
Daffodil-picker  Time  took  from  their  lives  the  glow, 

Stole  their  last  walk  along  the  three  green  fields, 

Their  latest  hour  together;  he  took,  he  stole 

The  white  contentment  that  a  true  love  yields; 

He  took  the  triumph  out  of  Mary's  soul. 

Now  she  must  lie  awake  and  blow  the  coal 

Of  sorrow  of  heart.    The  parting  hour  came; 

They  kissed  their  last  good-bye,  murmuring  the  other's  name. 

Then  the  flag  waved,  the  engine  snorted,  then 

Slowly  the  couplings  tautened,  and  the  train 

Moved,  bearing  off  from  her  her  man  of  men; 

She  looked  towards  its  going  blind  with  pain. 

Her  father  turned  and  drove  her  home  again. 

It  was  a  different  home.    Awhile  she  tried 

To  cook  the  dinner  there,  but  flung  her  down  and  cried. 

Then  in  the  dusk  she  wandered  down  the  brook, 

Treading  again  the  trackway  trod  of  old, 

When  she  could  hold  her  loved  one  in  a  look. 

The  night  was  all  unlike  those  nights  of  gold. 

Michael  was  gone,  and  all  the  April  old, 

Withered  and  hidden.    Life  was  full  of  ills; 

She  flung  her  down  and  cried  i'  the  withered  daffodils. 

Ill 

The  steaming  river  loitered  like  old  blood 
On  which  the  tugboat  bearing  Michael  beat, 
Past  whitened  horse  bones  sticking  in  the  mud. 

[342! 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

The  reed  stems  looked  like  metal  in  the  heat. 

Then  the  banks  fell  away,  and  there  were  neat, 

Red  herds  of  sullen  cattle  drifting  slow. 

A  fish  leaped,  making  rings,  making  the  dead  blood  flow. 

Wormed  hard-wood  piles  were  driv'n  in  the  river  bank, 

The  steamer  threshed  alongside  with  sick  screws 

Churning  the  mud  below  her  till  its  tank; 

Big  gassy  butcher-bubbles  burst  on  the  ooze. 

There  Michael  went  ashore;  as  glad  to  lose 

One  not  a  native  there,  the  Gauchos  flung 

His  broken  gear  ashore,  one  waved,  a  bell  was  rung. 

The  bowfast  was  cast  off,  the  screw  revolved, 
Making  a  bloodier  bubbling;  rattling  rope 
Fell  to  the  hatch,  the  engine's  tune  resolved 
Into  its  steadier  beat  of  rise  and  slope; 
The  steamer  went  her  way;  and  Michael's  hope 
Died  as  she  lessened;  he  was  there  alone. 
The  lowing  of  the  cattle  made  a  gradual  moan. 

He  thought  of  Mary,  but  the  thought  was  dim; 

That  was  another  life,  lived  long  before. 

His  mind  was  in  new  worlds  which  altered  him. 

The  startling  present  left  no  room  for  more. 

The  sullen  river  lipped,  the  sky,  the  shore 

Were  vaster  than  of  old,  and  lonely,  lonely. 

Sky  and  low  hills  of  grass  and  moaning  cattle  only. 

But  for  a  hut  bestrewn  with  skulls  of  beeves, 
Round  which  the  flies  danced,  where  an  Indian  girl 
Bleared  at  him  from  her  eyes'  ophthalmic  eaves, 

[343] 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

Grinning  a  welcome;  with  a  throaty  skirl, 

She  offered  him  herself;  but  he,  the  churl, 

Stared  till  she  thought  him  fool;  she  turned,  she  sat, 

Scratched  in  her  short,  black  hair,  chewed  a  cigar-end,  spat. 

Up,  on  the  rise,  the  cattle  bunched;  the  bulls 
Drew  to  the  front  with  menace,  pawing  bold, 
Snatching  the  grass-roots  out  with  sudden  pulls, 
The  distant  cattle  raised  their  heads;  the  wold 
Grew  dusty  at  the  top;  a  waggon  rolled, 
Drawn  by  a  bickering  team  of  mules  whose  eyes 
Were  yellow  like  their  teeth  and  bared  and  full  of  vice. 

Down  to  the  jetty  came  the  jingling  team, 

An  Irish  cowboy  driving,  while  a  Greek 

Beside  him  urged  the  mules  with  blow  and  scream. 

They  cheered  the  Indian  girl  and  stopped  to  speak. 

Then  lifting  her  aloft  they  kissed  her  cheek, 

Calling  to  Michael  to  be  quick  aboard, 

Or  they  (they  said)  would  fall  from  virtue,  by  the  Lord. 

So  Michael  climbed  aboard,  and  all  day  long 

He  drove  the  cattle  range,  rise  after  rise, 

Dotted  with  limber  shorthorns  grazing  strong, 

Cropping  sweet-tasted  pasture,  switching  flies; 

Dull  trouble  brooded  in  their  smoky  eyes. 

Some  horsemen  watched  them.    As  the  sun  went  down, 

The  waggon  reached  the  estancia  builded  like  a  town. 

With  wide  corrales  where  the  horses  squealed, 
Biting  and  lashing  out;  some  half-wild  hounds 
Gnawed  at  the  cowbones  littered  on  the  field, 

[3441 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

Or  made  the  stallions  stretch  their  picket  bounds.  • 
Some  hides  were  drying;  horsemen  came  from  rounds, 
Unsaddled  stiff,  and  turned  their  mounts  to  feed, 
And  then  brewed  bitter  drink  and  sucked  it  through  a  reed. 

The  Irishman  removed  his  pipe  and  spoke: 
"You  take  a  fool's  advice,"  he  said.    "Return. 
Go  back  where  you  belong  before  you're  broke; 
You'll  spoil  more  clothes  at  this  job  than  you'll  earn; 
It's  living  death,  and  when  you  die  you'll  burn: 
Body  and  soul  it  takes  you.    Quit  it.    No? 
Don't  say  I  never  told  you,  then.    Amigos.    Ho. 

"Here  comes  a  Gringo;  make  him  pay  his  shot. 

Pay  up  your  footing,  Michael;  rum's  the  word, 

It  suits  my  genius,  and  I  need  a  lot." 

So  the  great  cauldron  full  was  mixed  and  stirred. 

And  all  night  long  the  startled  cattle  heard 

Shouting  and  shooting,  and  the  moon  beheld 

Mobs  of  dim,  struggling  men,  who  fired  guns  and  yelled 

That  they  were  Abel  Brown  just  come  to  town, 

Michael  among  them.    By  a  bonfire  some 

Betted  on  red  and  black  for  money  down, 

Snatching  their  clinking  winnings,  eager,  dumb. 

Some  danced  unclad,  rubbing  their  heads  with  rum. 

The  grey  dawn,  bringing  beauty  to  the  skies, 

Saw  Michael  stretched  among  them,  far  too  drunk  to  rise. 

His  footing  paid,  he  joined  the  living-shed, 

Lined  with  rude  bunks  and  set  with  trestles:  there 

He,  like  the  other  ranchers,  slept  and  fed, 

l34Sl 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

Save  when  the  staff  encamped  in  open  air, 

Rounding  the  herd  for  branding.    Rude  and  bare 

That  barrack  was;  men  littered  it  about 

With  saddles,  blankets  blue,  old  headstalls,  many  a  clout 

Torn  off  to  wipe  a  knife  or  clean  a  gun, 

Tin  dishes,  sailors'  hookpots,  all  the  mess 

Made  where  the  outdoor  work  is  never  done 

And  every  cleaning  makes  the  sleeping  less. 

Men  came  from  work  too  tired  to  undress, 

And  slept  all  standing  like  the  trooper's  horse; 

Then  with  the  sun  they  rose  to  ride  the  burning  course, 

Whacking  the  shipment  cattle  into  pen, 

Where,  in  the  dust,  among  the  stink  of  burning, 

The  half-mad  heifers  bolted  from  the  men, 

And  tossing  horns  arose  and  hoofs  were  churning, 

A  lover  there  had  little  time  for  yearning; 

But  all  day  long,  cursing  the  flies  and  heat, 

Michael  was  handling  steers  on  horseback  till  his  feet 

Gave  on  dismounting.    All  day  long  he  rode, 
Then,  when  the  darkness  came,  his  mates  and  he 
Entered  dog-tired  to  the  rude  abode 
And  ate  their  meat  and  sucked  their  bitter  tea, 
And  rolled  themselves  in  rugs  and  slept.    The  sea 
Could  not  make  men  more  drowsy;  like  the  dead, 
They  lay  under  the  lamp  while  the  mosquitos  fed. 

There  was  no  time  to  think  of  Mary,  none; 
For  when  the  work  relaxed,  the  time  for  thought 
Was  broken  up  by  men  demanding  fun: 

[346] 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

Cards,  or  a  well-kept  ring  while  someone  fought, 

Or  songs  and  dancing;  or  a  case  was  bought 

Of  white  Brazilian  rum,  and  songs  and  cheers 

And  shots  and  oaths  rang  loud  upon  the  twitching  ears 

Of  the  hobbled  horses  hopping  to  their  feed. 

So  violent  images  displaced  the  rose 

In  Michael's  spirit:  soon  he  took  the  lead; 

None  was  more  apt  than  he  for  games  or  blows. 

Even  as  the  battle-seeking  bantam  crows, 

So  crowed  the  cockerel  of  his  mind  to  feel 

Life's  bonds  removed  and  blood  quick  in  him  toe  to  heel. 

But  sometimes  when  her  letters  came  to  him, 
Full  of  wise  tenderness  and  maiden  mind, 
He  felt  that  he  had  let  his  clearness  dim; 
The  riot  with  the  cowboys  seemed  unkind 
To  that  far  faithful  heart;  he  could  not  find 
Peace  in  the  thought  of  her;  he  found  no  spur 
To  instant  upright  action  in  his  love  for  her. 

She  faded  to  the  memory  of  a  kiss, 

There  in  the  rough  life  among  foreign  faces; 

Love  cannot  live  where  leisure  never  is; 

He  could  not  write  to  her  from  savage  places, 

Where  drunken  mates  were  betting  on  the  aces, 

And  rum  went  round  and  smutty  songs  were  lifted. 

He  would  not  raise  her  banner  against  that;  he  drifted, 

Ceasing,  in  time,  to  write,  ceasing  to  think, 
But  happy  in  the  wild  life  to  the  bone; 
The  riding  in  vast  space,  the  songs,  the  drink, 

[3471 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

Some  careless  heart  beside  him  like  his  own, 
The  racing  and  the  fights,  the  ease  unknown 
In  older,  soberer  lands;  his  young  blood  thrilled. 
The  pampas  seemed  his  own,  his  cup  of  joy  was  filled. 

And  one  day,  riding  far  after  strayed  horses, 

He  rode  beyond  the  ranges  to  a  land 

Broken  and  made  most  green  by  watercourses, 

Which  served  as  strayline  to  the  neighbouring  brand. 

A  house  stood  near  the  brook;  he  stayed  his  hand, 

Seeing  a  woman  there,  whose  great  eyes  burned, 

So  that  he  could  not  choose  but  follow  when  she  turned. 

After  that  day  he  often  rode  to  see 

That  woman  at  the  peach  farm  near  the  brook, 

And  passionate  love  between  them  came  to  be 

Ere  many  days.    Their  fill  of  love  they  took; 

And  even  as  the  blank  leaves  of  a  book 

The  days  went  over  Mary,  day  by  day, 

Blank  as  the  last,  was  turned,  endured,  passed,  turned  away. 

Spring  came  again  greening  the  hawthorn  buds; 

The  shaking  flowers,  new-blossomed,  seemed  the  same, 

And  April  put  her  riot  in  young  bloods; 

The  jays  flapped  in  the  larch  clump  like  blue  flame. 

She  did  not  care;  his  letter  never  came. 

Silent  she  went,  nursing  the  grief  that  kills, 

And  Lion  watched  her  pass  among  the  daffodils. 

IV 

Time  passed,  but  still  no  letter  came;  she  ceased, 
Almost,  to  hope,  but  never  to  expect. 
The  June  moon  came  which  had  beheld  love's  feast, 

[3481 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

Then  waned,  like  it;  the  meadow-grass  was  flecked 
With  moon-daisies,  which  died;  little  she  recked 
Of  change  in  outward  things,  she  did  not  change; 
Her  heart  still  knew  one  star,  one  hope,  it  did  not  range, 

Like  to  the  watery  hearts  of  tidal  men, 

Swayed  by  all  moons  of  beauty;  she  was  firm, 

When  most  convinced  of  misery  firmest  then. 

She  held  a  light  not  subject  to  the  worm. 

The  pageant  of  the  summer  ran  its  term, 

The  last  stack  came  to  staddle  from  the  wain; 

The  snow  fell,  the  snow  thawed,  the  year  began  again. 

With  the  wet  glistening  gold  of  celandines, 

And  snowdrops  pushing  from  the  withered  grass, 

Before  the  bud  upon  the  hawthorn  greens, 

Or  blackbirds  go  to  building;  but,  alas! 

No  spring  within  her  bosom  came  to  pass. 

"You're  going  like  a  ghost,"  her  father  said. 

"Now  put  him  out  of  mind,  and  be  my  prudent  maid." 

It  was  an  April  morning  brisk  with  wind, 
She  wandered  out  along  the  brook  sick-hearted, 
Picking  the  daffodils  where  the  water  dinned, 
While  overhead  the  first-come  swallow  darted. 
There,  at  the  place  where  all  the  passion  started, 
Where  love  first  knocked  about  her  maiden  heart, 
Young  Lion  Occleve  hailed  her,  calling  her  apart 

To  see  his  tulips  at  the  Roughs,  and  take 
A  spray  of  flowering  currant;  so  she  went. 
It  is  a  bitter  moment,  when  hearts  ache, 

[349l 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

To  see  the  loved  unhappy;  his  intent 

Was  but  to  try  comfort  her;  he  meant 

To  show  her  that  he  knew  her  heart's  despair, 

And  that  his  own  heart  bled  to  see  her  wretched  there. 

So,  as  they  talked,  he  asked  her,  had  she  heard 
From  Michael  lately?    No,  she  had  not;  she 
Had  been  a  great  while  now,  without  a  word. 
"No  news  is  always  good  news,"  answered  he. 
"You  know,"  he  said,  "how  much  you  mean  to  me; 
You've  always  been  the  queen.    Oh,  if  I  could 
Do  anything  to  help,  my  dear,  you  know  I  would." 

"Nothing,"  she  said,  much  touched.    "But  you  believe — 

You  still  believe  in  him?"    "Why,  yes,"  he  said. 

Lie  though  it  was  he  did  not  dare  deceive 

The  all  too  cruel  faith  within  the  maid. 

"That  ranching  is  a  wild  and  lonely  trade, 

Far  from  all  posts;  it  may  be  hard  to  send; 

All  puzzling  things  like  this  prove  simple  in  the  end. 

"We  should  have  heard  if  he  were  ill  or  dead. 

Keep  a  good  heart.    Now  come";  he  led  the  way 

Beyond  the  barton  to  the  calving-shed, 

Where,  on  a  strawy  litter  topped  with  hay, 

A  double-pedigree  prize  bull-calf  lay. 

"Near  three  weeks  old,"  he  said,  "the  Wrekin's  pet; 

Come  up,  now,  son,  come  up;  you  haven't  seen  him  yet. 

"We  have  done  well,"  he  added,  "with  the  stock, 
But  this  one,  if  he  lives,  will  make  a  name." 
The  bull-calf  gambolled  with  his  tail  acock, 

[35°! 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

Then  shyly  nosed  towards  them,  scared  but  tame; 

His  troublous  eyes  were  sulky  with  blue  flame. 

Softly  he  tip-toed,  shying  at  a  touch; 

He  nosed,  his  breath  came  sweet,  his  pale  tongue  curled  to  clutch. 

They  rubbed  his  head,  and  Mary  went  her  way, 

Counting  the  dreary  time,  the  dreary  beat 

Of  dreary  minutes  dragging  through  the  day; 

Time  crawled  across  her  life  with  leaden  feet; 

There  still  remained  a  year  before  her  sweet 

Would  come  to  claim  her;  surely  he  would  come; 

Meanwhile  there  was  the  year,  her  weakening  father,  home. 

Home  with  its  deadly  round,  with  all  its  setting, 
Things,  rooms,  and  fields  and  flowers  to  sting,  to  burn 
With  memories  of  the  love  time  past  forgetting 
Ere  absence  made  her  very  being  yearn. 
"My  love,  be  quick,"  she  moaned,  "return,  return; 
Come  when  the  three  years  end,  oh,  my  dear  soul, 
It's  bitter,  wanting  you."    The  lonely  nights  took  toll, 

Putting  a  sadness  where  the  beauty  was, 

Taking  a  lustre  from  the  hair;  the  days 

Saw  each  a  sadder  image  in  the  glass. 

And  when  December  came,  fouling  the  ways, 

And  ashless  beech-logs  made  a  Christmas  blaze, 

Some  talk  of  Michael  came;  a  rumour  ran, 

Someone  had  called  him  "wild"  to  some  returning  man, 

Who,  travelling  through  that  cattle-range,  had  heard 
Nothing  more  sure  than  this;  but  this  he  told 
At  second-hand  upon  a  cowboy's  word. 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

It  struck  on  Mary's  heart  and  turned  her  cold. 
That  winter  was  an  age  which  made  her  old. 
"But  soon,"  she  thought,  "soon  the  third  year  will  end; 
March,  April,  May,  and  June,  then  I  shall  see  my  friend. 

"He  promised  he  would  come;  he  will  not  fail. 

Oh,  Michael,  my  beloved  man,  come  soon; 

Stay  not  to  make  a  home  for  me,  but  sail. 

Love  and  the  hour  will  put  the  world  in  tune. 

You  in  my  life  for  always  is  the  boon 

I  ask  from  life — we  two,  together,  lovers." 

So  leaden  time  went  by  who  eats  things  and  discovers. 

Then,  in  the  winds  of  March,  her  father  rode, 
Hunting  the  Welland  country  on  Black  Ned; 
The  tenor  cry  gave  tongue  past  Clencher's  Lode, 
And  on  he  galloped,  giving  the  nag  his  head; 
Then,  at  the  brook,  he  fell,  was  picked  up  dead. 
Hounds  were  whipped  off;  men  muttered  with  one  breath, 
"We  knew  that  hard-mouthed  brute  would  some  day  be  his 
death." 

They  bore  his  body  on  a  hurdle  home; 
Then  came  the  burial,  then  the  sadder  day 
When  the  peaked  lawyer  entered  like  a  gnome, 
With  word  to  quit  and  lists  of  debts  to  pay. 
There  was  a  sale;  the  Foxholes  passed  away 
To  strangers,  who  discussed  the  points  of  cows, 
Where  love  had  put  such  glory  on  the  lovers'  brows. 

Kind  Lion  Occleve  helped  the  maid's  affairs. 
Her  sorrow  brought  him  much  beside  her;  he 
Caused  her  to  settle,  having  stilled  her  cares, 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

In  the  long  cottage  under  Spital  Gree. 

He  had  no  hope  that  she  would  love  him;  she 

Still  waited  for  her  lover,  but  her  eyes 

Thanked  Lion  to  the  soul;  he  made  the  look  suffice. 

By  this  the  yearling  bull-calf  had  so  grown 

That  all  men  talked  of  him;  mighty  he  grew, 

Huge-shouldered,  scaled  above  a  hundred  stone, 

With  deep  chest  many-wrinkled  with  great  thew, 

Plain-loined  and  playful-eyed;  the  Occleves  knew 

That  he  surpassed  his  pasture;  breeders  came 

From  far  to  see  this  bull;  he  brought  the  Qccleves  fame. 

Till  a  meat-breeding  rancher  on  the  plains 

Where  Michael  wasted,  sent  to  buy  the  beast, 

Meaning  to  cross  his  cows  with  heavier  strains 

Until  his  yield  of  meat  and  bone  increased. 

He  paid  a  mighty  price;  the  yearling  ceased 

To  be  the  wonder  of  the  countryside. 

He  sailed  in  Lion's  charge,  south,  to  the  Plate's  red  tide. 

There  Lion  landed  with  the  bull,  and  there 

The  great  beast  raised  his  head  and  bellowed  loud, 

Challenging  that  expanse  and  that  new  air; 

Trembling,  but  full  of  wrath  and  thunder-browed, 

Far  from  the  daffodil  fields  and  friends,  but  proud, 

His  wild  eye  kindled  at  the  great  expanse. 

Two  scraps  of  Shropshire  life  they  stood  there;  their  advance 

Was  slow  along  the  well-grassed  cattle  land, 
But  at  the  last  an  end  was  made;  the  brute 
Ate  his  last  bread  crust  from  his  master's  hand, 

l3S3l 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

And  snuffed  the  foreign  herd  and  stamped  his  foot; 

Steers  on  the  swelling  ranges  gave  salute. 

The  great  bull  bellowed  back  and  Lion  turned; 

His  task  was  now  to  find  where  Michael  lived;  he  learned 

The  farm's  direction,  and  with  heavy  mind, 

Thinking  of  Mary  and  her  sorrow,  rode, 

Leaving  the  offspring  of  his  fields  behind. 

A  last  time  in  his  ears  the  great  bull  lowed. 

Then,  shaking  up  his  horse,  the  young  man  glowed 

To  see  the  unfenced  pampas  opening  out 

Grass  that  makes  old  earth  sing  and  all  the  valleys  shout. 

At  sunset  on  the  second  day  he  came 

To  that  white  cabin  in  the  peach-tree  plot 

Where  Michael  lived;  they  met,  the  Shropshire  name 

Rang  trebly  dear  in  that  outlandish  spot. 

Old  memories  swam  up  dear,  old  joys  forgot, 

Old  friends  were  real  again;  but  Mary's  woe 

Came  into  Lion's  mind,  and  Michael  vexed  him  so, 

Talking  with  careless  freshness,  side  by  side 
With  that  dark  Spanish  beauty  who  had  won, 
As  though  no  heart-broke  woman,  heavy-eyed, 
Mourned  for  him  over  sea,  as  though  the  sun 
Shone  but  to  light  his  steps  to  love  and  fun, 
While  she,  that  golden  and  beloved  soul, 
Worth  ten  of  him,  lay  wasting  like  an  unlit  coal. 

So  supper  passed;  the  meat  in  Lion's  gorge 
Stuck  at  the  last,  he  could  not  bide  that  face. 
The  idle  laughter  on  it  plied  the  forge 

[3S4l 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

Where  hate  was  smithying  tools;  the  jokes,  the  place, 
Wrought  him  to  wrath;  he  could  not  stay  for  grace. 
The  tin  mug  full  of  red  wine  spilled  and  fell. 
He  kicked  his  stool  aside  with  "Michael,  this  is  hell. 

"Come  out  into  the  night  and  talk  to  me." 

The  young  man  lit  a  cigarette  and  followed; 

The  stars  seemed  trembling  at  a  brink  to  see; 

A  little  ghostly  white-owl  stooped  and  holloed. 

Beside  the  stake-fence  Lion  stopped  and  swallowed, 

While  all  the  wrath  within  him  made  him  grey. 

Michael  stood  still  and  smoked,  and  flicked  his  ash  away. 

"Well,  Lion,"  Michael  said,  "men  make  mistakes, 

And  then  regret  them;  and  an  early  flame 

Is  frequently  the  worst  mistakes  man  makes. 

I  did  not  seek  this  passion,  but  it  came. 

Love  happens  so  in  life.    Well?    Who's  to  blame? 

You'll  say  I've  broken  Mary's  heart;  the  heart 

Is  not  the  whole  of  life,  but  an  inferior  part, 

"Useful  for  some  few  years  and  then  a  curse. 

Nerves  should  be  stronger.    You  have  come  to  say 

The  three-year  term  is  up;  so  much  the  worse. 

I  cannot  meet  the  bill;  I  cannot  pay. 

I  would  not  if  I  could.    Men  change.    To-day 

I  know  that  that  first  choice,  however  sweet, 

Was  wrong  and  a  mistake;  it  would  have  meant  defeat, 

"Ruin  and  misery  to  us  both.    Let  be. 

You  say  I  should  have  told  her  this  ?    Perhaps. 

You  try  to  make  a  loving  woman  see 

ISSSl 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

That  the  warm  link  which  holds  you  to  her  snaps. 
Neglect  is  deadlier  than  the  thunder-claps. 
Yet  she  is  bright  and  I  am  water.    Well, 
I  did  not  make  myself;  this  life  is  often  hell. 

"Judge  if  you  must,  but  understand  it  first. 

We  are  old  friends,  and  townsmen,  Shropshire  born, 

Under  the  Wrekin.    You  believe  the  worst. 

You  have  no  knowledge  how  the  heart  is  torn, 

Trying  for  duty  up  against  the  thorn. 

Now  say  I've  broken  Mary's  heart:  begin. 

Break  hers,  or  hers  and  mine,  which  were  the  greater  sin?" 

"Michael,"  said  Lion,  "I  have  heard  you.    Now 

Listen  to  me.    Three  years  ago  you  made 

With  a  most  noble  soul  a  certain  vow. 

Now  you  reject  it,  saying  that  you  played. 

She  did  not  think  so,  Michael,  she  has  stayed, 

Eating  her  heart  out  for  a  line,  a  word, 

News  that  you  were  not  dead;  news  that  she  never  heard. 

"Not  once,  after  the  first.    She  has  held  firm 

To  what  you  counted  pastime;  she  has  wept 

Life,  day  by  weary  day  throughout  the  term, 

While  her  heart  sickened,  and  the  clock-hand  crept. 

While  you,  you  with  your  woman  here,  have  kept 

Holiday,  feasting;  you  are  fat;  you  smile. 

You  have  had  love  and  laughter  all  the  ghastly  while. 

"I  shall  be  back  in  England  six  weeks  hence, 
Standing  with  your  poor  Mary  face  to  face; 
Far  from  a  pleasant  moment,  but  intense. 

[3561 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

I  shall  be  asked  to  tell  her  of  this  place. 

And  she  will  eye  me  hard  and  hope  for  grace, 

Some  little  crumb  of  comfort  while  I  tell; 

And  every  word  will  burn  like  a  red  spark  from  hell, 

"That  you  have  done  with  her,  that  you  are  living 

Here  with  another  woman;  that  you  care 

Nought  for  the  pain  you've  given  and  are  giving; 

That  all  your  lover's  vows  were  empty  air. 

This  I  must  tell:  thus  I  shall  burn  her  bare, 

Burn  out  all  hope,  all  comfort,  every  crumb, 

End  it,  and  watch  her  whiten,  hopeless,  tearless,  dumb. 

"Or  do  I  judge  you  wrongly?"    He  was  still. 
The  cigarette-end  glowed  and  dimmed  with  ash; 
A  preying  night  bird  whimpered  on  the  hill. 
Michael  said  "Ah!"  and  fingered  with  his  sash, 
Then  stilled.    The  night  was  still;  there  came  no  flash 
Of  sudden  passion  bursting.    All  was  still; 
A  lonely  water  gurgled  like  a  whip-poor-will. 

"Now  I  must  go,"  said  Lion;  "where's  the  horse?" 
"There,"  said  his  friend;  "I'll  set  you  on  your  way." 
They  caught  and  rode,  both  silent,  while  remorse 
Worked  in  each  heart,  though  neither  would  betray 
What  he  was  feeling,  and  the  moon  came  grey, 
Then  burned  into  an  opal  white  and  great, 
Silvering  the  downs  of  grass  where  these  two  travelled  late, 

Thinking  of  English  fields  which  that  moon  saw, 
Fields  full  of  quiet  beauty  lying  hushed 
At  midnight  in  the  moment  full  of  awe, 

[3571 


When  the  red  fox  comes  creeping,  dewy-brushed. 
But  neither  spoke;  they  rode;  the  horses  rushed, 
Scattering  the  great  clods  skywards  with  such  thrills 
As  colts  in  April  feel  there  in  the  daffodils. 


The  river  brimming  full  was  silvered  over 

By  moonlight  at  the  ford;  the  river  bank 

Smelt  of  bruised  clote  buds  and  of  yellow  clover. 

Nosing  the  gleaming  dark  the  horses  drank, 

Drooping  and  dripping  as  the  reins  fell  lank; 

The  men  drooped  too;  the  stars  in  heaven  drooped; 

Rank  after  hurrying  rank  the  silver  water  trooped 

In  ceaseless  bright  procession  past  the  shallows, 

Talking  its  quick  inconsequence.    The  friends, 

Warmed  by  the  gallop  on  the  unfenced  fallows, 

Felt  it  a  kindlier  thing  to  make  amends. 

"A  jolly  burst,"  said  Michael;  "here  it  ends. 

Your  way  lies  straight  beyond  the  water.    There. 

Watch  for  the  lights,  and  keep  those  two  stars  as  they  bear." 

Something  august  was  quick  in  all  that  sky, 
Wheeling  in  multitudinous  march  with  fire; 
The  falling  of  the  wind  brought  it  more  nigh, 
They  felt  the  earth  take  solace  and  respire; 
The  horses  shifted  foothold  in  the  mire, 
Splashing  and  making  eddies.    Lion  spoke: 
"Do  you  remember  riding  past  the  haunted  oak 

"That  Christmas  Eve,  when  all  the  bells  were  ringing, 
So  that  we  picked  out  seven  churches'  bells, 
Ringing  the  night,  and  people  carol-singing? 

[3581 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

It  hummed  and  died  away  and  rose  in  swells 

Like  a  sea  breaking.    We  have  been  through  hells 

Since  then,  we  two,  and  now  this  being  here 

Brings  all  that  Christmas  back,  and  makes  it  strangely  near.5 

"Yes,"  Michael  answered,  "they  were  happy  times, 

Riding  beyond  there;  but  a  man  needs  a  change; 

I  know  what  they  connote,  those  Christmas  chimes, 

Fudge  in  the  heart,  and  pudding  in  the  grange. 

It  stifles  me  all  that;  I  need  the  range, 

Like  this  before  us,  open  to  the  sky; 

There  every  wing  is  clipped,  but  here  a  man  can  fly." 

"Ah,"  said  his  friend,  "man  only  flies  in  youth, 

A  few  short  years  at  most,  until  he  finds 

That  even  quiet  is  a  form  of  truth, 

And  all  the  rest  a  coloured  rag  that  blinds. 

Life  offers  nothing  but  contented  minds. 

Some  day  you'll  know  it,  Michael.    I  am  grieved 

That  Mary's  heart  will  pay  until  I  am  believed." 

There  was  a  silence  while  the  water  dripped 

From  the  raised  muzzles  champing  on  the  steel. 

Flogging  the  crannied  banks  the  water  lipped. 

Night  up  above  them  turned  her  starry  wheel; 

And  each  man  feared  to  let  the  other  feel 

How  much  he  felt;  they  fenced;  they  put  up  bars. 

The  moon  made  heaven  pale  among  the  withering  stars. 

"Michael,"  said  Lion,  "why  should  we  two  part? 
Ride  on  with  me;  or  shall  we  both  return, 
Make  preparation,  and  to-morrow  start, 

[3591 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

And  travel  home  together?    You  would  learn 
How  much  the  people  long  to  see  you;  turn. 
We  will  ride  back  and  say  good-bye,  and  then 
Sail,  and  see  home  again,  and  see  the  Shropshire  men, 

"And  see  the  old  Shropshire  mountain  and  the  fair, 

Full  of  drunk  Welshmen  bringing  mountain  ewes; 

And  partridge  shooting  would  be  starting  there." 

Michael  hung  down  his  head  and  seemed  to  choose. 

The  horses  churned  fresh  footing  in  the  ooze. 

Then  Michael  asked  if  Tom  were  still  alive, 

Old  Tom,  who  fought  the  Welshman  under  Upton  Drive, 

For  nineteen  rounds,  on  grass,  with  the  bare  hands? 
"Shaky,"  said  Lion,  "living  still,  but  weak; 
Almost  past  speaking,  but  he  understands." 
"And  old  Shon  Shones  we  teased  so  with  the  leek?" 
"Dead."    "When?"    "December."    Michael  did  not  speak, 
But  muttered  "Old  Jones  dead."    A  minute  passed. 
"What  came  to  little  Sue,  his  girl?"  he  said  at  last. 

"Got  into  trouble  with  a  man  and  died; 

Her  sister  keeps  the  child."    His  hearer  stirred. 

"Dead,  too?    She  was  a  pretty  girl,"  he  sighed, 

"A  graceful  pretty  creature,  like  a  bird. 

What  is  the  child?"    "A  boy.    Her  sister  heard 

Too  late  to  help;  poor  Susan  died;  the  man 

None  knew  who  he  could  be,  but  many  rumours  ran." 

"Ah,"  Michael  said.    The  horses  tossed  their  heads; 
A  little  wind  arising  struck  in  chill; 
"Time,"  he  began,  "that  we  were  in  our  beds." 

[360] 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

A  distant  heifer  challenged  from  the  hill, 
Scraped  at  the  earth  with  's  forefoot  and  was  still. 
"Come  with  me,"  Lion  pleaded.    Michael  grinned; 
He  turned  his  splashing  horse,  and  prophesied  a  wind. 

"So  long,"  he  said,  and  "Kind  of  you  to  call. 

Straight  on,  and  watch  the  stars";  his  horse's  feet 

Trampled  the  firmer  foothold,  ending  all. 

He  flung  behind  no  message  to  his  sweet, 

No  other  word  to  Lion;  the  dull  beat 

Of  his  horse's  trample  drummed  upon  the  trail; 

Lion  could  watch  him  drooping  in  the  moonlight  pale, 

Drooping  and  lessening;  half  expectant  still 

That  he  would  turn  and  greet  him;  but  no  sound 

Came,  save  the  lonely  water's  whip-poor-will 

And  the  going  horse  hoofs  dying  on  the  ground. 

"Michael,"  he  cried,  "Michael!"    A  lonely  mound 

Beyond  the  water  gave  him  back  the  cry. 

"That's  at  an  end,"  he  said,  "and  I  have  failed  her — I." 

Soon  the  far  hoof-beats  died,  save  for  a  stir 

Half  heard,  then  lost,  then  still,  then  heard  again. 

A  quickening  rhythm  showed  he  plied  the  spur. 

Then  a  vast  breathing  silence  took  the  plain. 

The  moon  was  like  a  soul  within  the  brain 

Of  the  great  sleeping  world;  silent  she  rode 

The  water  talked,  talked,  talked;  it  trembled  as  it  flowed. 

A  moment  Lion  thought  to  ride  in  chase. 
He  turned,  then  turned  again,  knowing  his  friend. 
He  forded  through  with  death  upon  his  face, 

[361] 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

And  rode  the  plain  that  seemed  never  to  end. 

Clumps  of  pale  cattle  nosed  the  thing  unkenned, 

Riding  the  night;  out  of  the  night  they  rose, 

Snuffing  with  outstretched  heads,  stamping  with  surly  lows, 

Till  he  was  threading  through  a  crowd,  a  sea 

Of  curious  shorthorns  backing  as  he  came, 

Barring  his  path,  but  shifting  warily; 

He  slapped  the  flanks  of  the  more  tame. 

Unreal  the  ghostly  cattle  lumbered  lame. 

His  horse  kept  at  an  even  pace;  the  cows 

Broke  right  and  left  like  waves  before  advancing  bows. 

Lonely  the  pampas  seemed  amid  that  herd. 
The  thought  of  Mary's  sorrow  pricked  him  sore; 
He  brought  no  comfort  for  her,  not  a  word; 
He  would  not  ease  her  pain,  but  bring  her  more. 
The  long  miles  dropped  behind;  lights  rose  before, 
Lights  and  the  seaport  and  the  briny  air; 
And  so  he  sailed  for  home  to  comfort  Mary  there. 


When  Mary  knew  the  worst  she  only  sighed, 
Looked  hard  at  Lion's  face,  and  sat  quite  still, 
White  to  the  lips,  but  stern  and  stony-eyed, 
Beaten  by  life  in  all  things  but  the  will. 
Though  the  blow  struck  her  hard  it  did  not  kill. 
She  rallied  on  herself,  a  new  life  bloomed 
Out  of  the  ashy  heart  where  Michael  lay  entombed. 

And  more  than  this:  for  Lion  touched  a  sense 
That  he,  the  honest  humdrum  man,  was  more 
Than  he  by  whom  the  glory  and  the  offence 

[362! 


Came  to  her  life  three  bitter  years  before. 

This  was  a  treason  in  her  being's  core; 

It  smouldered  there;  meanwhile  as  two  good  friends 

They  met  at  autumn  dusks  and  winter  daylight-ends. 

And  once,  after  long  twilight  talk,  he  broke 
His  strong  restraint  upon  his  passion  for  her, 
And  burningly,  most  like  a  man  he  spoke, 
Until  her  pity  almost  overbore  her. 
It  could  not  be,  she  said;  her  pity  tore  her; 
But  still  it  could  not  be,  though  this  was  pain. 
Then  on  a  frosty  night  they  met  and  spoke  again. 

And  then  he  wooed  again,  clutching  her  hands, 
Calling  the  maid  his  mind,  his  heart,  his  soul, 
Saying  that  God  had  linked  their  lives  in  bands 
When  the  worm  Life  first  started  from  the  goal; 
That  they  were  linked  together,  past  control, 
Linked  from  all  time,  could  she  but  pity;  she 
Pitied  from  the  soul,  but  said  it  could  not  be. 

"Mary,"  he  asked,  "you  cannot  love  me?    No?" 

"No,"  she  replied;  "would  God  I  could,  my  dear." 

"God  bless  you,  then,"  he  answered,  "I  must  go, 

Go  over  sea  to  get  away  from  here, 

I  cannot  think  of  work  when  you  are  near; 

My  whole  life  falls  to  pieces;  it  must  end. 

This  meeting  now  must  be  'good-bye,'  beloved  friend." 

White-lipped  she  listened,  then  with  failing  breath, 
She  asked  for  yet  a  little  time;  her  face 
Was  even  as  that  of  one  condemned  to  death. 

[363! 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

She  asked  for  yet  another  three  months'  grace, 
Asked  it,  as  Lion  inly  knew,  in  case 
Michael  should  still  return;  and  "Yes"  said  he, 
"I'll  wait  three  months  for  you,  beloved;  let  it  be." 

Slowly  the  three  months  dragged:  no  Michael  came. 

March  brought  the  daffodils  and  set  them  shaking. 

April  was  quick  in  Nature  like  green  flame; 

May  came  with  dog-rose  buds,  and  corncrakes  craking, 

Then  dwindled  like  her  blossom;  June  was  breaking. 

"Mary,"  said  Lion,  "can  you  answer  now?" 

White  like  a  ghost  she  stood,  he  long  remembered  how. 

Wild-eyed  and  white,  and  trembling  like  a  leaf, 

She  gave  her  answer,  "Yes";  she  gave  her  lips, 

Cold  as  a  corpse's  to  the  kiss  of  grief, 

Shuddering  at  him  as  if  his  touch  were  whips. 

Then  her  best  nature,  struggling  to  eclipse 

This  shrinking  self,  made  speech;  she  jested  there; 

They  searched  each  other's  eyes,  and  both  souls  saw  despair. 

So  the  first  passed,  and  after  that  began 

A  happier  time:  she  could  not  choose  but  praise 

That  recognition  of  her  in  the  man 

Stiving  to  salve  her  pride  in  myriad  ways; 

He  was  a  gentle  lover:  gentle  days 

Passed  like  a  music  after  tragic  scenes; 

Her  heart  gave  thanks  for  that;  but  still  the  might-have-beens 

Haunted  her  inner  spirit  day  and  night, 
And  often  in  his  kiss  the  memory  came 
Of  Michael's  face  above  her,  passionate,  white, 

[364! 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

His  lips  at  her  lips  murmuring  her  name, 
Then  she  would  suffer  sleepless,  sick  with  shame, 
And  struggle  with  her  weakness.    She  had  vowed 
To  give  herself  to  Lion;  she  was  true  and  proud. 

He  should  not  have  a  woman  sick  with  ghosts, 

But  one  firm-minded  to  be  his;  so  time 

Passed  one  by  one  the  summer's  marking  posts, 

The  dog-rose  and  the  foxglove  and  the  lime. 

Then  on  a  day  the  church-bells  rang  a  chime. 

Men  fired  the  bells  till  all  the  valley  filled 

With  bell-noise  from  the  belfry  where  the  jackdaws  build. 

Lion  and  she  were  married;  home  they  went, 
Home  to  The  Roughs  as  man  and  wife;  the  news 
Was  printed  in  the  paper.    Mary  sent 
A  copy  out  to  Michael.    Now  we  lose 
Sight  of  her  for  a  time,  and  the  great  dews 
Fall,  and  the  harvest-moon  grows  red  and  fills 
Over  the  barren  fields  where  March  brings  daffodils. 

VI 

The  rider  lingered  at  the  fence  a  moment, 

Tossed  out  the  pack  to  Michael,  whistling  low, 

Then  rode,  waving  his  hand,  without  more  comment, 

Down  the  vast  grey-green  pampas  sloping  slow. 

Michael's  last  news  had  come  so  long  ago, 

He  wondered  who  had  written  now;  the  hand 

Thrilled  him  with  vague  alarm,  it  brought  him  to  a  stand. 

He  opened  it  with  one  eye  on  the  hut, 
Lest  she  within  were  watching  him,  but  she 
Was  combing  out  her  hair,  the  door  was  shut, 

[365] 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

The  green  sun-shutters  closed,  she  could  not  see. 
Out  fell  the  love-tryst  handkerchief  which  he 
Had  had  embroidered  with  his  name  for  her; 
It  had  been  dearly  kept,  it  smelt  of  lavender. 

Something  remained:  a  paper,  crossed  with  blue, 

Where  he  should  read;  he  stood  there  in  the  sun, 

Reading  of  Mary's  wedding  till  he  knew 

What  he  had  cast  away,  what  he  had  done. 

He  was  rejected,  Lion  was  the  one. 

Lion,  the  godly  and  the  upright,  he. 

The  black  lines  in  the  paper  showed  how  it  could  be. 

He  pocketed  the  love  gift  and  took  horse, 
And  rode  out  to  the  pay-shed  for  his  savings. 
Then  turned,  and  rode  a  lonely  water-course, 
Alone  with  bitter  thoughts  and  bitter  cravings. 
Sun-shadows  on  the  reeds  made  twinkling  wavings; 
An  orange-bellied  turtle  scooped  the  mud; 
Mary  had  married  Lion,  and  the  news  drew  blood. 

And  with  the  bitterness,  the  outcast  felt 

A  passion  for  those  old  kind  Shropshire  places, 

The  ruined  chancel  where  the  nuns  had  knelt; 

High  Ercall  and  the  Chase  End  and  the  Chases, 

The  glimmering  mere,  the  burr,  the  well-known  faces, 

By  Wrekin  and  by  Zine  and  country  town. 

The  orange-bellied  turtle  burrowed  further  down. 

He  could  remember  Mary  now;  her  crying 
Night  after  night  alone  through  weary  years, 
Had  touched  him  now  and  set  the  cords  replying; 

[366] 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

He  knew  her  misery  now,  her  ache,  her  tears, 
The  lonely  nights,  the  ceaseless  hope,  the  fears, 
The  arm  stretched  out  for  one  not  there,  the  slow 
Loss  of  the  lover's  faith,  the  letting  comfort  go. 

"Now  I  will  ride,"  he  said.    Beyond  the  ford 
He  caught  a  fresh  horse  and  rode  on.    The  night 
Found  him  a  guest  at  Pepe  Blanco's  board, 
Moody  and  drinking  rum  and  ripe  for  fight; 
Drawing  his  gun,  he  shot  away  the  light, 
And  parried  Pepe's  knife  and  caught  his  horse, 
And  all  night  long  he  rode  bedevilled  by  remorse. 

At  dawn  he  caught  an  eastward-going  ferry, 

And  all  day  long  he  steamed  between  great  banks 

Which  smelt  of  yellow  thorn  and  loganberry. 

Then  wharves  appeared,  and  chimneys  rose  in  ranks, 

Mast  upon  mast  arose;  the  river's  flanks 

Were  filled  with  English  ships,  and  one  he  found 

Needing  another  stoker,  being  homeward  bound. 

And  all  the  time  the  trouble  in  his  head 
Ran  like  a  whirlwind  moving  him;  he  knew 
Since  she  was  lost  that  he  was  better  dead. 
He  had  no  project  outlined,  what  to  do, 
Beyond  go  home;  he  joined  the  steamer's  crew. 
She  sailed  that  night:  he  dulled  his  maddened  soul, 
Plying  the  iron  coal-slice  on  the  bunker  coal. 

Work  did  not  clear  the  turmoil  in  his  mind; 
Passion  takes  colour  from  the  nature's  core; 
His  misery  was  as  his  nature,  blind. 
[367] 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

Life  was  still  turmoil  when  he  went  ashore. 
To  see  his  old  love  married  lay  before; 
To  see  another  have  her,  drink  the  gall, 
Kicked  like  a  dog  without,  while  he  within  had  all. 


Soon  he  was  at  the  Foxholes,  at  the  place 

Whither,  from  over  sea,  his  heart  had  turned 

Often  at  evening-ends  in  times  of  grace. 

But  little  outward  change  his  eye  discerned; 

A  red  rose  at  her  bedroom  window  burned, 

Just  as  before.    Even  as  of  old  the  wasps 

Poised  at  the  yellow  plums:  the  gate  creaked  on  its  hasps, 

And  the  white  fantails  sidled  on  the  roof 
Just  as  before;  their  pink  feet,  even  as  of  old, 
Printed  the  frosty  morning's  rime  with  proof. 
Still  the  zew-tallat's  thatch  was  green  with  mould; 
The  apples  on  the  withered  boughs  were  gold. 
Men  and  the  times  were  changed:  "And  I,"  said  he, 
"Will  go  and  not  return,  since  she  is  not  for  me. 

"I'll  go,  for  it  would  be  a  scurvy  thing 

To  spoil  her  marriage,  and  besides,  she  cares 

For  that  half-priest  she  married  with  the  ring. 

Small  joy  for  me  in  seeing  how  she  wears, 

Or  seeing  what  he  takes  and  what  she  shares. 

That  beauty  and  those  ways:  she  had  such  ways, 

There  in  the  daffodils  in  those  old  April  days." 

So  with  an  impulse  of  good  will  he  turned, 
Leaving  that  place  of  daffodils;  the  road 
Was  paven  sharp  with  memories  which  burned; 

[368] 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

He  trod  them  strongly  under  as  he  strode. 

At  the  Green  Turning's  forge  the  furnace  glowed; 

Red  dithying  sparks  flew  from  the  crumpled  soft 

Fold  from  the  fire's  heart;  down  clanged  the  hammers  oft. 

That  was  a  bitter  place  to  pass,  for  there 

Mary  and  he  had  often,  often  stayed 

To  watch  the  horseshoe  growing  in  the  glare. 

It  was  a  tryst  in  childhood  when  they  strayed. 

There  was  a  stile  beside  the  forge;  he  laid 

His  elbows  on  it,  leaning,  looking  down 

The  river-valley  stretched  with  great  trees  turning  brown. 

Infinite,  too,  because  it  reached  the  sky, 
And  distant  spires  arose  and  distant  smoke; 
The  whiteness  on  the  blue  went  stilly  by; 
Only  the  clinking  forge  the  stillness  broke. 
Ryemeadows  brook  was  there;  The  Roughs,  the  oak 
Where  the  White  Woman  walked;  the  black  firs  showed 
Around  the  Occleve  homestead  Mary's  new  abode. 

A  long,  long  time  he  gazed  at  that  fair  place, 

So  well  remembered  from  of  old ;  he  sighed. 

"I  will  go  down  and  look  upon  her  face, 

See  her  again,  whatever  may  betide. 

Hell  is  my  future;  I  shall  soon  have  died, 

But  I  will  take  to  hell  one  memory  more; 

She  shall  not  see  nor  know;  I  shall  be  gone  before; 

"  Before  they  turn  the  dogs  upon  me,  even. 
I  do  not  mean  to  speak;  but  only  see. 
Even  the  devil  gets  a  peep  at  heaven; 

[369] 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

One  peep  at  her  shall  come  to  hell  with  me; 
One  peep  at  her,  no  matter  what  may  be." 
He  crossed  the  stile  and  hurried  down  the  slope. 
Remembered  trees  and  hedges  gave  a  zest  to  hope. 


A  low  brick  wall  with  privet  shrubs  beyond 
Ringed  in  The  Roughs  upon  the  side  he  neared. 
Eastward  some  bramble  bushes  cloaked  the  pond; 
Westward  was  barley-stubble  not  yet  cleared. 
He  thrust  aside  the  privet  boughs  and  peered. 
The  drooping  fir  trees  let  their  darkness  trail 
Black  like  a  pirate's  masts  bound  under  easy  sail. 

The  garden  with  its  autumn  flowers  was  there; 

Few  that  his  wayward  memory  linked  with  her. 

Summer  had  burnt  the  summer  flowers  bare, 

But  honey-hunting  bees  still  made  a  stir. 

Sprigs  were  still  bluish  on  the  lavender, 

And  bluish  daisies  budded,  bright  flies  poised; 

The  wren  upon  the  tree-stump  carolled  cheery- voiced. 

He  could  not  see  her  there.    Windows  were  wide, 

Late  wasps  were  cruising,  and  the  curtains  shook. 

Smoke,  like  the  house's  breathing,  floated,  sighed, 

Among  the  trembling  firs  strange  ways  it  took. 

But  still  no  Mary's  presence  blessed  his  look; 

The  house  was  still  as  if  deserted,  hushed. 

Faint  fragrance  hung  about  it  as  if  herbs  were  crushed. 

Fragrance  that  gave  his  memory's  guard  a  hint 
Of  times  long  past,  of  reapers  in  the  corn, 
Bruising  with  heavy  boots  the  stalks  of  mint, 
[370] 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

When  first  the  berry  reddens  on  the  thorn. 
Memories  of  her  that  fragrance  brought.    Forlorn 
That  vigil  of  the  watching  outcast  grew; 
He  crept  towards  the  kitchen,  sheltered  by  a  yew. 

The  windows  of  the  kitchen  opened  wide. 

Again  the  fragrance  came;  a  woman  spoke; 

Old  Mrs.  Occleve  talked  to  one  inside. 

A  smell  of  cooking  filled  a  gust  of  smoke. 

Then  fragrance  once  again,  for  herbs  were  broke; 

Pourri  was  being  made;  the  listener  heard 

Things  lifted  and  laid  down,  bruised  into  sweetness,  stirred. 

While  an  old  woman  made  remarks  to  one 

Who  was  not  the  beloved:  Michael  learned 

That  Roger's  wife  at  Upton  had  a  son, 

And  that  the  red  geraniums  should  be  turned; 

A  hen  was  missing,  and  a  rick  was  burned; 

Our  Lord  commanded  patience;  here  it  broke; 

The  window  closed,  it  made  the  kitchen  chimney  smoke. 

Steps  clacked  on  flagstones  to  the  outer  door; 

A  dairy-maid,  whom  he  remembered  well, 

Lined,  now,  with  age,  and  greyer  than  before, 

Rang  a  cracked  cow-bell  for  the  dinner-bell. 

He  saw  the  dining-room;  he  could  not  tell 

If  Mary  were  within:  inly  he  knew 

That  she  was  coming  now,  that  she  would  be  in  blue, 

Blue  with  a  silver  locket  at  the  throat, 
And  that  she  would  be  there,  within  there,  near, 
With  the  little  blushes  that  he  knew  by  rote, 

1 37i] 


And  the  grey  eyes  so  steadfast  and  so  dear, 

The  voice,  pure  like  the  nature,  true  and  clear, 

Speaking  to  her  belov'd  within  the  room. 

The  gate  clicked,  Lion  came:  the  outcast  hugged  the  gloom, 

Watching  intently  from  below  the  boughs, 

While  Lion  cleared  his  riding-boots  of  clay, 

Eyed  the  high  clouds  and  went  within  the  house. 

His  eyes  looked  troubled,  and  his  hair  looked  grey. 

Dinner  began  within  with  much  to  say. 

Old  Occleve  roared  aloud  at  his  own  joke. 

Mary,  it  seemed,  was  gone;  the  loved  voice  never  spoke. 

Nor  could'  her  lover  see  her  from  the  yew; 

She  was  not  there  at  table;  she  was  ill, 

111,  or  away  perhaps — he  wished  he  knew. 

Away,  perhaps,  for  Occleve  bellowed  still. 

"If  sick,"  he  thought,  "the  maid  or  Lion  will 

Take  food  to  her."    He  watched;  the  dinner  ended. 

The  staircase  was  not  used;  none  climbed  it,  none  descended. 

"Not  here,"  he  thought;  but  wishing  to  be  sure, 

He  waited  till  the  Occleves  went  to  field, 

Then  followed,  round  the  house,  another  lure, 

Using  the  well-known  privet  as  his  shield. 

He  meant  to  run  a  risk;  his  heart  was  steeled. 

He  knew  of  old  which  bedroom  would  be  hers; 

He  crouched  upon  the  north  front  in  among  the  firs, 

The  house  stared  at  him  with  its  red-brick  blank, 
Its  vacant  window-eyes;  its  open  door, 
With  old  wrought  bridle  ring-hooks  at  each  flank, 

1 37*1 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

Swayed  on  a  creaking  hinge  as  the  wind  bore. 
Nothing  had  changed;  the  house  was  as  before, 
The  dull  red  brick,  the  windows  sealed  or  wide: 
"I  will  go  in,"  he  said.    He  rose  and  stepped  inside. 

None  could  have  seen  him  coming;  all  was  still; 

He  listened  in  the  doorway  for  a  sign. 

Above,  a  rafter  creaked,  a  stir,  a  thrill 

Moved,  till  the  frames  clacked  on  the  picture  line. 

"Old  Mother  Occleve  sleeps,  the  servants  dine," 

He  muttered,  listening.    "Hush."    A  silence  brooded. 

Far  off  the  kitchen  dinner  clattered;  he  intruded. 

Still,  to  his  right,  the  best  room  door  was  locked. 

Another  door  was  at  his  left;  he  stayed. 

Within,  a  stately  timepiece  ticked  and  tocked, 

To  one  who  slumbered  breathing  deep;  it  made 

An  image  of  Time's  going  and  man's  trade. 

He  looked:  Old  Mother  Occleve  lay  asleep, 

Hands  crossed  upon  her  knitting,  rosy,  breathing  deep. 

He  tiptoed  up  the  stairs  which  creaked  and  cracked. 
The  landing  creaked;  the  shut  doors,  painted  gray, 
Loomed,  as  if  shutting  in  some  dreadful  act. 
The  nodding  frames  seemed  ready  to  betray. 
The  east  room  had  been  closed  in  Michael's  day, 
Being  the  best;  but  now  he  guessed  it  hers; 
The  fields  of  daffodils  lay  next  it,  past  the  firs. 

Just  as  he  reached  the  landing,  Lion  cried, 
Somewhere  below,  "I'll  get  it."    Lion's  feet 
Struck  on  the  flagstones  with  a  hasty  stride. 
[3731 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

"He's  coming  up,"  thought  Michael,  "we  shall  meet." 
He  snatched  the  nearest  door  for  his  retreat, 
Opened  with  thieves'  swift  silence,  dared  not  close, 
But  stood  within,  behind  it.    Lion's  footsteps  rose, 

Running  two  steps  at  once,  while  Michael  stood, 

Not  breathing,  only  knowing  that  the  room 

Was  someone's  bedroom  smelling  of  old  wood, 

Hung  with  engravings  of  the  day  of  doom. 

The  footsteps  stopped;  and  Lion  called,  to  whom? 

A  gentle  question,  tapping  at  a  door, 

And  Michael  shifted  feet,  and  creakings  took  the  floor. 

The  footsteps  recommenced,  a  door-catch  clacked; 
Within  an  eastern  room  the  footsteps  passed. 
Drawers  were  pulled  loudly  open  and  ransacked, 
Chattels  were  thrust  aside  and  overcast. 
What  could  the  thing  be  that  he  sought.    At  last 
His  voice  said,  "Here  it  is."    The  wormed  floor 
Creaked  with  returning  footsteps  down  the  corridor. 

The  footsteps  came  as  though  the  walker  read, 

Or  added  rows  of  figures  by  the  way; 

There  was  much  hesitation  in  the  tread; 

Lion  seemed  pondering  which,  to  go  or  stay; 

Then,  seeing  the  door,  which  covered  Michael,  sway, 

He  swiftly  crossed  and  shut  it.    "Always  one 

For  order,"  Michael  muttered.    "Now  be  swift,  my  son.' 

The  action  seemed  to  break  the  walker's  mood; 
The  footsteps  passed  downstairs,  along  the  hall, 
Out  at  the  door  and  off  towards  the  wood. 

[374] 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

"Gone,"  Michael  muttered.    "Now  to  hazard  all." 
Outside,  the  frames  still  nodded  on  the  wall. 
Michael  stepped  swiftly  up  the  floor  to  try 
The  door  where  Lion  tapped  and  waited  for  reply. 

It  was  the  eastmost  of  the  rooms  which  look 

Over  the  fields  of  daffodils;  the  bound 

Scanned  from  its  windows  is  Ryemeadows  brook, 

Banked  by  gnarled  apple  trees  and  rising  ground. 

Most  gently  Michael  tapped;  he  heard  no  sound, 

Only  the  blind-pull  tapping  with  the  wind; 

The  kitchen-door  was  opened;  kitchen-clatter  dinned. 

A  woman  walked  along  the  hall  below, 
Humming;  a  maid,  he  judged;  the  footsteps  died, 
Listening  intently  still,  he  heard  them  go, 
Then  swiftly  turned  the  knob  and  went  inside. 
The  blind-pull  at  the  window  volleyed  wide; 
The  curtains  streamed  out  like  a  waterfall; 
The  pictures  of  the  fox-hunt  clacked  along  the  wall. 

No  one  was  there;  no  one;  the  room  was  hers. 

A  book  of  praise  lay  open  on  the  bed; 

The  clothes-press  smelt  of  many  lavenders, 

Her  spirit  stamped  the  room;  herself  was  fled. 

Here  she  found  peace  of  soul  like  daily  bread, 

Here,  with  her  lover  Lion;  Michael  gazed; 

He  would  have  been  the  sharer  had  he  not  been  crazed, 

He  took  the  love-gift  handkerchief  again; 
He  laid  it  on  her  table,  near  the  glass, 
So  opened  that  the  broidered  name  was  plain; 
[37Sl 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

"Plain,"  he  exclaimed,  "she  cannot  let  it  pass. 
It  stands  and  speaks  for  me  as  bold  as  brass. 
My  answer,  my  heart's  cry,  to  tell  her  this, 
That  she  is  still  my  darling:  all  she  was  she  is. 

"So  she  will  know  at  least  that  she  was  wrong, 

That  underneath  the  blindness  I  was  true. 

Fate  is  the  strongest  thing,  though  men  are  strong; 

Out  from  beyond  life  I  was  sealed  to  you. 

But  my  blind  wTays  destroyed  the  cords  that  drew; 

And  now,  the  evil  done,  I  know  my  need; 

Fate  has  his  way  with  those  who  mar  what  is  decreed. 

"And  now,  goodbye."    He  closed  the  door  behind  him, 
Then  stept,  with  firm  swift  footstep  down  the  stair, 
Meaning  to  go  where  she  would  never  find  him; 
He  would  go  down  through  darkness  to  despair. 
Out  at  the  door  he  stept;  the  autumn  air 
Came  fresh  upon  his  face;  none  saw  him  go. 
"Goodbye,  my  love,"  he  muttered;  "it  is  better  so." 

Soon  he  was  on  the  high  road,  out  of  sight 

Of  valley  and  farm;  soon  he  could  see  no  more 

The  oast-house  pointing  finger  take  the  light 

As  tumbling  pigeons  glittered  over;  nor 

Could  he  behold  the  wind-vane  gilded  o'er, 

Swinging  above  the  church;  the  road  swung  round. 

"Now,  the  last  look,"  he  cried:  he  saw  that  holy  ground. 

"Goodbye,"  he  cried;  he  could  behold  it  all, 
Spread  out  as  in  a  picture;  but  so  clear 
That  the  gold  apple  stood  out  from  the  wall; 

1376] 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

Like  a  red  jewel  stood  the  grazing  steer. 

Precise,  intensely  coloured,  all  brought  near, 

As  in  a  vision,  lay  that  holy  ground. 

"Mary  is  there,"  he  moaned,  "and  I  am  outward  bound. 

"I  never  saw  this  place  so  beautiful, 

Never  like  this.    I  never  saw  it  glow. 

Spirit  is  on  this  place;  it  fills  it  full. 

So  let  the  die  be  cast;  I  will  not  go. 

But  I  will  see  her  face  to  face  and  know 

From  her  own  lips  what  thoughts  she  has  of  me; 

And  if  disaster  come:  right;  let  disaster  be." 

Back,  by  another  way,  he  turned.    The  sun 

Fired  the  yew-tops  in  the  Roman  woods. 

Lights  in  the  valley  twinkled  one  by  one, 

The  starlings  whirled  in  dropping  multitudes. 

Dusk  fingered  into  one  earth's  many  moods, 

Back  to  The  Roughs  he  walked;  he  neared  the  brook; 

A  lamp  burned  in  the  farm;  he  saw;  his  fingers  shook. 

He  had  to  cross  the  brook,  to  cross  a  field, 
Where  daffodils  were  thick  when  years  were  young. 
Then,  were  she  there,  his  fortunes  should  be  sealed. 
Down  the  mud  trackway  to  the  brook  he  swung; 
Then  while  the  passion  trembled  on  his  tongue, 
Dim,  by  the  dim  bridge-stile,  he  seemed  to  see 
A  figure  standing  mute;  a  woman — it  was  she. 

She  stood  quite  stilly,  waiting  for  him  there. 
She  did  not  seem  surprised;  the  meeting  seemed 
Planned  from  all  time  by  powers  in  the  air 

[377] 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

To  change  their  human  fates;  he  even  deemed 
That  in  another  life  this  thing  had  gleamed, 
This  meeting  by  the  bridge.    He  said,  "It's  you." 
"Yes,  I,"  she  said,  "who  else?    You  must  have  known;  you 
knew 

"That  I  should  come  here  to  the  brook  to  see, 

After  your  message."    "You  were  out,"  he  said. 

"Gone,  and  I  did  not  know  where  you  could  be. 

Where  were  you,  Mary,  when  the  thing  was  laid?" 

"Old  Mrs.  Cale  is  dying,  and  I  stayed 

Longer  than  usual,  while  I  read  the  Word. 

You  could  have  hardly  gone."    She  paused,  her  bosom  stirred. 

"Mary,  I  sinned,"  he  said.    "Not  that,  dear,  no," 

She  said;  "but,  oh,  you  were  unkind,  unkind, 

Never  to  write  a  word  and  leave  me  so, 

But  out  of  sight  with  you  is  out  of  mind." 

"Mary,  I  sinned,"  he  said,  "and  I  was  blind. 

Oh,  my  beloved,  are  you  Lion's  wife?" 

"Belov'd  sounds  strange,"  she  answered,  "in  my  present  life. 

"But  it  is  sweet  to  hear  it,  all  the  same. 

It  is  a  language  little  heard  by  me 

Alone,  in  that  man's  keeping,  with  my  shame. 

I  never  thought  such  miseries  could  be. 

I  was  so  happy  in  you,  Michael.    He 

Came  when  I  felt  you  changed  from  what  I  thought  you. 

Even  now  it  is  not  love,  but  jealousy  that  brought  you." 

"That  is  untrue,"  he  said.    "I  am  in  hell. 
You  are  my  heart's  beloved,  Mary,  you. 
By  God,  I  know  your  beauty  now  too  well. 

[378] 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

We  are  each  other's,  flesh  and  soul,  we  two." 

"That  was  sweet  knowledge  once,"  she  said;  "we  knew 

That  truth  of  old.    Now,  in  a  strange  man's  bed, 

I  read  it  in  my  soul,  and  find  it  written  red." 

"Is  he  a  brute?"  he  asked.    "No,"  she  replied. 

"I  did  not  understand  what  it  would  mean. 

And  now  that  you  are  back,  would  I  had  died; 

Died,  and  the  misery  of  it  not  have  been. 

Lion  would  not  be  wrecked,  nor  I  unclean. 

I  was  a  proud  one  once,  and  now  I'm  tame; 

Oh,  Michael,  say  some  word  to  take  away  my  shame." 

She  sobbed;  his  arms  went  round  her;  the  night  heard 

Intense  fierce  whispering  passing,  soul  to  soul, 

Love  running  hot  on  many  a  murmured  word, 

Love's  passionate  giving  into  new  control. 

Their  present  misery  did  but  blow  the  coal, 

Did  but  entangle  deeper  their  two  wills, 

While  the  brown  brook  ran  on  by  buried  daffodils. 

VII 

Upon  a  light  gust  came  a  waft  of  bells, 

Ringing  the  chimes  for  nine;  a  broken  sweet, 

Like  waters  bubbling  out  of  hidden  wells, 

Dully  upon  those  lovers'  ears  it  beat, 

Their  time  was  at  an  end.    Her  tottering  feet 

Trod  the  dim  field  for  home;  he  sought  an  inn. 

"Oh,  I  have  sinned,"  she  cried,  "but  not  a  secret  sin." 

Inside  The  Roughs  they  waited  for  her  coming; 
Eyeing  the  ticking  clock  the  household  sat. 
"Nine,"  the  clock  struck;  the  clock-weights  ran  down  drumming; 

[3791 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

Old  Mother  Occleve  stretched  her  sewing  flat. 
"It's  nine,"  she  said.    Old  Occleve  stroked  the  cat. 
"Ah,  cat,"  he  said,  "hast  had  good  go  at  mouse?" 
Lion  sat  listening  tense  to  all  within  the  house. 

"Mary  is  late  to-night,"  the  gammer  said. 

"The  times  have  changed,"  her  merry  husband  roared. 

"Young  married  couples  now  like  lonely  trade, 

Don't  think  of  bed  at  all,  they  think  of  board. 

No  multiplying  left  in  people.    Lord ! 

When  I  was  Lion's  age  I'd  had  my  five. 

There  was  some  go  in  folk  when  us  two  took  to  wive." 

Lion  arose  and  stalked  and  bit  his  lip. 

"Or  was  it  six?"  the  old  man  muttered,  "six. 

Us  had  so  many  I've  alost  the  tip. 

Us  were  two  right  good  souls  at  getting  chicks. 

Two  births  of  twins,  then  Johnny's  birth,  then  Dick's". 

"Now  give  a  young  man  time,"  the  mother  cried. 

Mary  came  swiftly  in  and  flung  the  room  door  wide. 

Lion  was  by  the  window  when  she  came, 
Old  Occleve  and  his  wife  were  by  the  fire; 
Big  shadows  leapt  the  ceiling  from  the  flame. 
She  fronted  the  three  figures  and  came  nigher. 
"Lion,"  she  whispered,  "I  return  my  hire." 
She  dropped  her  marriage-ring  upon  the  table. 
Then,  in  a  louder  voice,  "I  bore  what  I  was  able, 

"And  Time  and  marriage  might  have  worn  me  down, 
Perhaps,  to  be  a  good  wife  and  a  blest, 
With  little  children  clinging  to  my  gown, 

[380] 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

And  little  blind  mouths  fumbling  for  my  breast, 
And  this  place  would  have  been  a  place  of  rest 
For  you  and  me;  we  could  have  come  to  know 
The  depth;  but  that  is  over;  I  have  got  to  go. 

"He  has  come  back,  and  I  have  got  to  go. 

Our  marriage  ends."    She  stood  there  white  and  breathed. 

Old  Occleve  got  upon  his  feet  with  "So." 

Blazing  with  wrath  upon  the  hearth  he  seethed. 

A  log  fell  from  the  bars;  blue  spirals  wreathed 

Across  the  still  old  woman's  startled  face; 

The  cat  arose  and  yawned.    Lion  was  still  a  space. 

Old  Occleve  turned  to  Lion.    Lion  moved 

Nearer  to  Mary,  picking  up  the  ring. 

His  was  grim  physic  from  the  soul  beloved; 

His  face  was  white  and  twitching  with  the  sting. 

"You  are  my  wife,  you  cannot  do  this  thing," 

He  said  at  last.    "I  can  respect  your  pride. 

This  thing  affects  your  soul;  my  judgment  must  decide. 

"You  are  unsettled,  shaken  from  the  shock." 

"Not  so,"  she  said.    She  stretched  a  hand  to  him, 

White,  large  and  noble,  steady  as  a  rock, 

Cunning  with  many  powers,  curving,  slim. 

The  smoke,  drawn  by  the  door-draught,  made  it  dim. 

"Right,"  Lion  answered.    "You  are  steady.    Then 

There  is  but  one  world,  Mary;  this,  the  world  of  men. 

"And  there's  another  world,  without  its  bounds, 
Peopled  by  streaked  and  spotted  souls  who  prize 
The  flashiness  that  comes  from  marshy  grounds 

[381] 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

Above  plain  daylight.    In  their  blinkered  eyes 

Nothing  is  bright  but  sentimental  lies, 

Such  as  are  offered  you,  dear,  here  and  now; 

Lies  which  betray  the  strongest,  God  alone  knows  how. 

"You,  in  your  beauty  and  your  whiteness,  turn 

Your  strong,  white  mind,  your  faith,  your  fearless  truth, 

All  for  these  rotten  fires  that  so  burn. 

A  sentimental  clutch  at  perished  youth. 

I  am  too  sick  for  wisdom,  sick  with  ruth, 

And  this  comes  suddenly;  the  unripe  man 

Misses  the  hour,  oh  God.    But  you,  what  is  your  plan? 

"What  do  you  mean  to  do,  how  act,  how  live? 
What  warrant  have  you  for  your  life  ?    What  trust  ? 
You  are  for  going  sailing  in  a  sieve. 
This  brightness  is  too  mortal  not  to  rust. 
So  our  beginning  marriage  ends  in  dust. 
I  have  not  failed  you,  Mary.    Let  me  know 
What  you  intend  to  do,  and  whither  you  will  go." 

"Go  from  this  place;  it  chokes  me,"  she  replied. 

"This  place  has  branded  me;  I  must  regain 

My  truth  that  I  have  soiled,  my  faith,  my  pride, 

It  is  all  poison  and  it  leaves  a  stain. 

I  cannot  stay  nor  be  your  wife  again. 

Never.    You  did  your  best,  though;  you  were  kind. 

I  have  grown  old  to-night  and  left  all  that  behind. 

"Goodbye."    She  turned.    Old  Occleve  faced  his  son. 
Wrath  at  the  woman's  impudence  was  blent, 
Upon  his  face,  with  wrath  that  such  an  one 

[382] 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

Should  stand  unthrashed  until  her  words  were  spent. 
He  stayed  for  Lion's  wrath;  but  Mary  went 
Unchecked;  he  did  not  stir.    Her  footsteps  ground 
The  gravel  to  the  gate;  the  gate-hinge  made  a  sound 

Like  to  a  cry  of  pain  after  a  shot. 

Swinging,  it  clicked,  it  clicked  again,  it  swung 

Until  the  iron  latch  bar  hit  the  slot. 

Mary  had  gone,  and  Lion  held  his  tongue. 

Old  Mother  Occleve  sobbed;  her  white  head  hung 

Over  her  sewing  while  the  tears  ran  down 

Her  worn,  blood-threaded  cheeks  and  splashed  upon  her  gown. 

"Yes,  it  is  true,"  said  Lion,  "she  must  go. 

Michael  is  back.    Michael  was  always  first, 

I  did  but  take  his  place.    You  did  not  know. 

Now  it  has  happened,  and  you  know  the  worst. 

So  passion  makes  the  passionate  soul  accurst 

And  crucifies  his  darling.    Michael  comes 

And  the  savage  truth  appears  and  rips  my  life  to  thrums." 

Upon  Old  Occleve's  face  the  fury  changed 

First  to  contempt,  and  then  to  terror  lest 

Lion,  beneath  the  shock,  should  be  deranged. 

But  Lion's  eyes  were  steady,  though  distressed. 

"Father,  good-night,"  he  said,  "I'm  going  to  rest. 

Good-night,  I  cannot  talk.    Mother,  good-night." 

He  kissed  her  brow  and  went;  they  heard  him  strike  a  light, 

And  go  with  slow  depressed  step  up  the  stairs, 
Up  to  the  door  of  her  deserted  bower; 
They  heard  him  above  them,  moving  chairs; 

[383] 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

The  memory  of  his  paleness  made  them  cower. 
They  did  not  know  their  son;  they  had  no  power 
To  help,  they  only  saw  the  new-won  bride 
Defy  their  child,  and  faith  and  custom  put  aside. 


After  a  time  men  learned  where  Mary  was: 
Over  the  hills,  not  many  miles  away, 
Renting  a  cottage  and  a  patch  of  grass 
Where  Michael  came  to  see  her.    Every  day 
Taught  her  what  fevers  can  inhabit  clay, 
Shaking  this  body  that  so  soon  must  die. 
The  time  made  Lion  old:  the  winter  dwindled  by. 

Till  the  long  misery  had  to  end  or  kill: 

And  "I  must  go  to  see  her,"  Lion  cried; 

"I  am  her  standby,  and  she  needs  me  still; 

If  not  to  love  she  needs  me  to  decide. 

Dear,  I  will  set  you  free.    Oh,  my  bright  bride, 

Lost  in  such  piteous  ways,  come  back."    He  rode 

Over  the  wintry  hills  to  Mary's  new  abode. 

And  as  he  topped  the  pass  between  the  hills, 
Towards  him.  up  the  swerving  road,  there  came 
Michael,  the  happy  cause  of  all  his  ills; 
Walking  as  though  repentance  were  the  shame, 
Sucking  a  grass,  unbuttoned,  still  the  same, 
Humming  a  tune;  his  careless  beauty  wild 
Drawing  the  women's  eyes;  he  wandered  with  a  child. 

Who  heard,  wide-eyed,  the  scraps  of  tales  which  fell 
Between  the  fragments  of  the  tune;  they  seemed 
A  cherub  bringing  up  a  soul  from  hell. 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

Meeting  unlike  the  meeting  long  since  dreamed. 

Lion  dismounted;  the  great  valley  gleamed 

With  waters  far  below;  his  teeth  were  set 

His  heart  thumped  at  his  throat;  he  stopped;  the  two  men  met. 

The  child  well  knew  that  fatal  issues  joined; 

He  stood  round-eyed  to  watch  them,  even  as  Fate 

Stood  with  his  pennypiece  of  causes  coined 

Ready  to  throw  for  issue;  the  bright  hate 

Throbbed,  that  the  heavy  reckoning  need  not  wait. 

Lion  stepped  forward,  watching  Michael's  eyes. 

"We  are  old  friends,"  he  said.    "Now,  Michael,  you  be  wise, 

"And  let  the  harm  already  done  suffice; 

Go,  before  Mary's  name  is  wholly  gone. 

Spare  her  the  misery  of  desertion  twice, 

There's  only  ruin  in  the  road  you're  on — 

Ruin  for  both,  whatever  promise  shone 

In  sentimental  shrinkings  from  the  fact. 

So,  Michael,  play  the  man,  and  do  the  generous  act. 

"And  go;  if  not  for  my  sake,  go  for  hers. 

You  only  want  her  with  your  sentiment. 

You  are  water  roughed  by  every  wind  that  stirs, 

One  little  gust  will  alter  your  intent 

All  ways,  to  every  wind,  and  nothing  meant, 

Is  your  life's  habit.    Man,  one  takes  a  wife, 

Not  for  a  three  months'  fancy,  but  the  whole  of  life. 

"We  have  been  friends,  so  I  speak  you  fair. 
How  will  you  bear  her  ill,  or  cross,  or  tired? 
Sentiment  sighing  will  not  help  you  there. 

[385! 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

You  call  a  half  life's  volume  not  desired. 

I  know  your  love  for  her.    I  saw  it  mired, 

Mired,  past  going,  by  your  first  sharp  taste 

Of  life  and  work;  it  stopped;  you  let  her  whole  life  waste, 

"Rather  than  have  the  trouble  of  such  love, 

You  will  again;  but  if  you  do  it  now, 

It  will  mean  death,  not  sorrow.    But  enough. 

You  know  too  well  you  cannot  keep  a  vow. 

There  are  grey  hairs  already  on  her  brow. 

You  brought  them  there.    Death  is  the  next  step.    Go, 

Before  you  take  the  step."    "No,"  Michael  answered,  "No. 

"As  for  my  past,  I  was  a  dog,  a  cur, 

And  I  have  paid  blood-money,  and  still  pay. 

But  all  my  being  is  ablaze  with  her; 

There  is  no  talk  of  giving  up  to-day. 

I  will  not  give  her  up.    You  used  to  say 

Bodies  are  earth.    I  heard  you  say  it.    Liar! 

You  never  loved  her,  you.    She  turned  the  earth  to  fire." 

"Michael,"  said  Lion,  "you  have  said  such  things 
Of  other  women;  less  than  six  miles  hence 
You  and  another  woman  felt  love's  wings 
Rosy  and  fair,  and  so  took  leave  of  sense. 
She's  dead,  that  other  woman,  dead,  with  pence 
Pressed  on  her  big  brown  eyes,  under  the  ground; 
She  that  was  merry  once,  feeling  the  world  go  round. 

"Her  child  (and  yours)  is  with  her  sister  now, 
Out  there,  behind  us,  living  as  they  can; 
Pinched  by  the  poverty  that  you  allott. 

[386] 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

All  a  long  autumn  many  rumours  ran 
About  Sue  Jones  that  was:  you  were  the  man. 
The  lad  is  like  you.    Think  about  his  mother, 
Before  you  turn  the  earth  to  fire  with  another." 

"That  is  enough,"  said  Michael,  "you  shall  know 

Soon,  to  your  marrow,  what  my  answer  is; 

Know  to  your  lying  heart;  now  kindly  go. 

The  neighbours  smell  that  something  is  amiss. 

We  two  will  keep  a  dignity  in  this, 

Such  as  we  can.    No  quarrelling  with  me  here. 

Mary  might  see;  now  go;  but  recollect,  my  dear, 

"That  if  you  twit  me  with  your  wife,  you  lie; 

And  that  your  further  insult  waits  a  day 

When  God  permits  that  Mary  is  not  by; 

I  keep  the  record  of  it,  and  shall  pay. 

And  as  for  Mary;  listen:  we  betray 

No  one.    We  keep  our  troth-plight  as  we  meant. 

Now  go,  the  neighbours  gather."    Lion  bowed  and  went. 

Home  to  his  memories  for  a  month  of  pain, 
Each  moment  like  a  devil  with  a  tongue, 
Urging  him,  "Set  her  free,"  or  "Try  again," 
Or  "  Kill  that  man  and  stamp  him  into  dung." 
"See  her,"  he  cried.    He  took  his  horse  and  swung 
Out  on  the  road  to  her;  the  rain  was  falling; 
Her  dropping  house-eaves  splashed  him  when  he  knocked  there, 
calling. 

Drowned  yellow  jasmine  dripped;  his  horse's  flanks 
Steamed,  and  dark  runnels  on  his  yellow  hair 
Streaked  the  groomed  surface  into  blotchy  ranks. 

[387] 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

The  noise  of  water  dropping  filled  the  air. 

He  knocked  again;  but  there  was  no  one  there; 

No  one  within,  the  door  was  locked,  no  smoke 

Came  from  the  chimney  stacks,  no  clock  ticked,  no  one  spoke. 

Only  the  water  dripped  and  dribble-dripped, 
And  gurgled  through  the  rain-pipe  to  the  butt; 
Drops,  trickling  down  the  windows  paused  or  slipped; 
A  wet  twig  scraked  as  though  the  glass  were  cut. 
The  blinds  were  all  drawn  down,  the  windows  shut. 
No  one  was  there.    Across  the  road  a  shawl 
Showed  at  a  door  a  space;  a  woman  gave  a  call. 

"They're  gone  away,"  she  cried.    "They're  gone  away. 

Been  gone  a  matter  of  a  week."    Where  to? 

The  woman  thought  to  Wales,  but  could  not  say, 

Nor  if  she  planned  returning;  no  one  knew. 

She  looked  at  Lion  sharply;  then  she  drew 

The  half-door  to  its  place  and  passed  within, 

Saying  she  hoped  the  rain  would  stop  and  spring  begin. 

Lion  rode  home.    A  month  went  by,  and  now 
Winter  was  gone;  the  myriad  shoots  of  green 
Bent  to  the  wind,  like  hair,  upon  the  plough, 
And  up  from  withered  leaves  came  celandine. 
And  sunlight  came,  though  still  the  air  was  keen, 
So  that  the  first  March  market  was  most  fair, 
And  Lion  rode  to  market,  having  business  there. 

And  in  the  afternoon,  when  all  was  done, 
While  Lion  waited  idly  near  the  inn, 
Watching  the  pigeons  sidling  in  the  sun, 

[388] 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

As  Jim  the  ostler  put  his  gelding  in, 

He  heard  a  noise  of  rioting  begin 

Outside  the  yard,  with  catcalls;  there  were  shouts 

Of  "Occleve.    Lion  Occleve,"  from  a  pack  of  louts, 

Who  hung  about  the  courtyard-arch,  and  cried, 

"Yah,  Occleve,  of  The  Roughs,  the  married  man, 

Occleve,  who  had  the  bed  and  not  the  bride." 

At  first  without  the  arch;  but  some  began 

To  sidle  in,  still  calling;  children  ran 

To  watch  the  baiting;  they  were  farmer's  leavings 

Who  shouted  thus,  men  cast  for  drunkenness  and  thievings. 

Lion  knew  most  of  them  of  old ;  he  paid 

No  heed  to  them,  but  turned  his  back  and  talked 

To  Jim,  of  through-pin  in  his  master's  jade, 

And  how  no  horse-wounds  should  be  stuped  or  caulked. 

The  rabble  in  the  archway,  not  yet  baulked, 

Came  crowding  nearer,  and  the  boys  began, 

"Who  was  it  took  your  mistress,  master  married  man?" 

"Who  was  it,  master,  took  your  wife  away?" 

"I  wouldn't  let  another  man  take  mine." 

"She  had  two  husbands  on  her  wedding  day." 

"See  at  a  blush:  he  blushed  as  red  as  wine." 

"She'd  ought  a  had  a  cart-whip  laid  on  fine." 

The  farmers  in  the  courtyard  watched  the  baiting, 

Grinning,  the  barmaids  grinned  above  the  window  grating. 

Then  through  the  mob  of  brawlers  Michael  stepped 
Straight  to  where  Lion  stood.    "I  come,"  he  said, 
"To  give  you  back  some  words  which  I  have  kept 

[389! 


,  THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

Safe  in  my  heart  till  I  could  see  them  paid. 

You  lied  about  Sue  Jones;  she  died  a  maid 

As  far  as  I'm  concerned,  and  there's  your  lie, 

Full  in  your  throat,  and  there,  and  there,  and  in  your  eye. 

"And  there's  for  stealing  Mary".    .    .   as  he  struck, 

He  slipped  upon  a  piece  of  peel  and  dropped 

Souse  in  a  puddle  of  the  courtyard  muck; 

Loud  laughter  followed  when  he  rose  up  sopped. 

Friends  rushed  to  intervene,  the  fight  was  stopped. 

The  two  were  hurried  out  by  different  ways. 

Men  said,  "'Tis  stopped  for  now,  but  not  for  many  days." 


April  appeared,  the  green  earth's  impulse  came, 
Pushing  the  singing  sap  until  each  bud 
Trembled  with  delicate  life  as  soft  as  flame, 
Filled  by  the  mighty  heart-beat  as  with  blood; 
Death  was  at  ebb,  and  Life  in  brimming  flood. 
But  little  joy  in  life  could  Lion  see, 
Striving  to  gird  his  will  to  set  his  loved  one  free, 

While  in  his  heart  a  hope  still  struggled  dim 

That  the  mad  hour  would  pass,  the  darkness  break, 

The  fever  die,  and  she  return  to  him, 

The  routed  nightmare  let  the  sleeper  wake. 

"Then  we  could  go  abroad,"  he  cried,  "and  make 

A  new  life,  soul  to  soul;  oh,  love!  return." 

"Too  late,"  his  heart  replied.    At  last  he  rode  to  learn. 

Bowed,  but  alive  with  hope,  he  topped  the  pass, 
And  saw,  below,  her  cottage  by  the  way, 
White,  in  a  garden  green  with  springing  grass, 

[39°] 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

And  smoke  against  the  blue  sky  going  grey. 
"God  make  us  all  the  happier  for  to-day,'* 
He  muttered  humbly;  then,  below,  he  spied, 
Mary  and  Michael  entering,  walking  side  by  side. 

Arm  within  arm,  like  lovers,  like  dear  lovers 

Matched  by  the  happy  stars  and  newly  wed, 

Over  whose  lives  a  rosy  presence  hovers. 

Lion  dismounted,  seeing  hope  was  dead. 

A  child  was  by  the  road,  he  stroked  his  head, 

And  "Little  one,"  he  said,  "who  lives  below 

There,  in  the  cottage  there,  where  those  two  people  go?" 

"They  do,"  the  child  said,  pointing:    "Mrs.  Gray 

Lives  in  the  cottage  there,  and  he  does,  too. 

They've  been  back  near  a  week  since  being  away." 

It  was  but  seal  to  what  he  inly  knew. 

He  thanked  the  child  and  rode.    The  Spring  was  blue, 

Bluer  than  ever,  and  the  birds  were  glad; 

Such  rapture  in  the  hedges  all  the  blackbirds  had. 

He  was  not  dancing  to  that  pipe  of  the  Spring. 

He  reached  The  Roughs,  and  there,  within  her  room, 

Bowed  for  a  time  above  her  wedding  ring, 

Which  had  so  chained  him  to  unhappy  doom; 

All  his  dead  marriage  haunted  in  the  gloom 

Of  that  deserted  chamber;  all  her  things 

Lay  still  as  she  had  left  them  when  her  love  took  wings. 

He  kept  a  bitter  vigil  through  the  night, 
Knowing  his  loss,  his  ten  years'  passion  wasted, 
His  life  all  blasted,  even  at  its  height, 

[39i] 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

His  cup  of  life's  fulfilment  hardly  tasted. 
Grey  on  the  budding  woods  the  morning  hasted, 
And  looking  out  he  saw  the  dawn  come  chill 
Over  the  shaking  acre  pale  with  daffodil. 

Birds  were  beginning  in  the  meadows;  soon 

The  blackbirds  and  the  thrushes  with  their  singing 

Piped  down  the  withered  husk  that  was  the  moon, 

And  up  the  sky  the  ruddy  sun  came  winging. 

Cows  plodded  past,  yokes  clanked,  the  men  were  bringing 

Milk  from  the  barton.    Someone  shouted  "Hup. 

Dog,  drive  them  dangy  red  ones  down  away  on  up." 

Some  heavy  hours  went  by  before  he  rose. 

He  went  out  of  the  house  into  the  grass, 

Down  which  the  wind  flowed  much  as  water  flows; 

The  daffodils  bowed  down  to  let  it  pass. 

At  the  brook's  edge  a  boggy  bit  there  was, 

Right  at  the  field's  north  corner,  near  the  bridge, 

Fenced  by  a  ridge  of  earth;  he  sat  upon  the  ridge, 

Watching  the  water  running  to  the  sea, 

Watching  the  bridge,  the  stile,  the  path  beyond, 

Where  the  white  violet's  sweetness  brought  the  bee. 

He  paid  the  price  of  being  overfond. 

The  water  babbled  always  from  the  pond 

Over  the  pretty  shallows,  chattering,  tinkling, 

With  trembles  from  the  sunlight  in  its  clearness  wrinkling. 

So  gazing,  like  one  stunned,  it  reached  his  mind, 
That  the  hedge-brambles  overhung  the  brook 
More  than  was  right,  making  the  selvage  blind; 

[392! 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

The  dragging  brambles  too  much  flotsam  took. 
Dully  he  thought  to  mend.    He  fetched  a  hook, 
And  standing  in  the  shallow  stream  he  slashed, 
For  hours,  it  seemed;  the  thorns,  the  twigs,  the  dead  leaves 
splashed, 

Splashed  and  were  bobbed  away  across  the  shallows; 

Pale  grasses  with  the  sap  gone  from  them  fell, 

Sank,  or  were  carried  down  beyond  the  sallows. 

The  bruised  ground-ivy  gave  out  earthy  smell. 

"I  must  be  dead,"  he  thought,  "and  this  is  hell." 

Fiercely  he  slashed,  till,  glancing  at  the  stile, 

He  saw  that  Michael  stood  there,  watching,  with  a  smile, 

His  old  contemptuous  smile  of  careless  ease, 

As  though  the  world  with  all  its  myriad  pain 

Sufficed,  but  only  just  sufficed,  to  please. 

Michael  was  there,  the  robber  come  again. 

A  tumult  ran  like  flame  in  Lion's  brain; 

Then,  looking  down,  he  saw  the  flowers  shake: 

Gold,  trembling  daffodils;  he  turned,  he  plucked  a  stake 

Out  of  the  hedge  that  he  had  come  to  mend, 
And  flung  his  hook  to  Michael,  crying,  "Take; 
We  two  will  settle  our  accounts,  my  friend, 
Once  and  for  ever.    May  the  Lord  God  make 
You  see  your  sins  in  time."    He  whirled  his  stake 
And  struck  at  Michael's  head;  again  he  struck; 
While  Michael  dodged  and  laughed,  "Why,  man,  I  bring  you 
luck. 

"Don't  kill  a  bringer  of  good  news.    You  fool, 
Stop  it  and  listen.    I  have  come  to  say: 
Lion,  for  God's  sake,  listen  and  be  cool. 

[393] 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

You  silly  hothead,  put  that  stake  away. 

Listen,  I  tell  you."    But  he  could  not  stay 

The  anger  flaming  in  that  passionate  soul. 

Blows  rained  upon  him  thick;  they  stung;  he  lost  control. 

Till,  "If  you  want  to  fight,"  he  cried,  "let  be. 

Let  me  get  off  the  bridge  and  we  will  fight. 

That  firm  bit  by  the  quag  will  do  for  me. 

So.    Be  on  guard,  and  God  defend  the  right. 

You  foaming  madman,  with  your  hell's  delight, 

Smashing  a  man  with  stakes  before  he  speaks: 

On  guard.     I'll  make  you  humbler  for  the  next  few  weeks." 

The  ground  was  level  there;  the  daffodils 
Glimmered  and  danced  beneath  their  cautious  feet, 
Quartering  for  openings  for  the  blow  that  kills. 
Beyond  the  bubbling  brook  a  thrush  was  sweet. 
Quickly  the  footsteps  slid;  with  feint  and  cheat, 
The  weapons  poised  and  darted  and  withdrew. 
"Now  stop  it,"  Michael  said,  "I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

"We  do  not  stop  till  one  of  us  is  dead," 

Said  Lion,  rushing  in.    A  short  blow  fell 

Dizzily,  through  all  guard,  on  Michael's  head. 

His  hedging-hook  slashed  blindly  but  too  well: 

It  struck  in  Lion's  side.    Then,  for  a  spell, 

Both,  sorely  stricken,  staggered,  while  their  eyes 

Dimmed  under  mists  of  blood;  they  fell,  they  tried  to  rise, — 

Tried  hard  to  rise,  but  could  not,  so  they  lay, 
Watching  the  clouds  go  sailing  on  the  sky, 
Touched  with  a  redness  from  the  end  of  day. 

[3941 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

There  was  all  April  in  the  blackbird's  cry. 
And  lying  there  they  felt  they  had  to  die, 
Die  and  go  under  mould  and  feel  no  more 
April's  green  fire  of  life  go  running  in  earth's  core. 

"There  was  no  need  to  hit  me,"  Michael  said; 

"You  quiet  thinking  fellows  lose  control. 

This  fighting  business  is  a  foolish  trade. 

And  now  we  join  the  grave-worm  and  the  mole. 

I  tried  to  stop  you.    You're  a  crazy  soul; 

You  always  were  hot-headed.     Well,  let  be: 

You  deep  and  passionate  souls  have  always  puzzled  me. 

"I'm  sorry  that  I  struck  you.    I  was  hit, 

And  lashed  out  blindly  at  you;  you  were  mad. 

It  would  be  different  if  you'd  stopped  a  bit. 

You  are  too  blind  when  you  are  angry,  lad. 

Oh,  I  am  giddy,  Lion;  dying,  bad. 

Dying."    He  raised  himself,  he  sat,  his  look 

Grew  greedy  for  the  water  bubbling  in  the  brook. 

And  as  he  watched  it,  Lion  raised  his  head 
Out  of  a  bloodied  clump  of  daffodil. 
"Michael,"  he  moaned,  "I,  too,  am  dying:  dead. 
You're  nearer  to  the  water.    Could  you  fill 
Your  hat  and  give  me  drink?    Or  would  it  spill? 
Spill,  I  expect."    "I'll  try,"  said  Michael,  "try— 
I  may  as  well  die  trying,  since  I  have  to  die." 

Slowly  he  forced  his  body's  failing  life 
Down  to  the  water;  there  he  stooped  and  filled; 
And  as  his  back  turned  Lion  drew  his  knife, 

[3951 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

And  hid  it  close,  while  all  his  being  thrilled 
To  see,  as  Michael  came,  the  water  spilled, 
Nearer  and  ever  nearer,  bright,  so  bright. 
"Drink,"  muttered  Michael,  "drink.    We  two  shall  sleep  to- 
night." 

He  tilted  up  the  hat,  and  Lion  drank. 

Lion  lay  still  a  moment,  gathering  power, 

Then  rose,  as  Michael  gave  him  more,  and  sank. 

Then,  like  a  dying  bird  whom  death  makes  tower, 

He  raised  himself  above  the  bloodied  flower 

And  struck  with  all  his  force  in  Michael's  side. 

"You  should  not  have  done  that,"  his  stricken  comrade  cried. 

"No;  for  I  meant  to  tell  you,  Lion;  meant 

To  tell  you;  but  I  cannot  now;  I  die. 

That  hit  me  to  the  heart  and  I  am  spent. 

Mary  and  I  have  parted;  she  and  I 

Agreed  she  must  return,  lad.    That  is  why 

I  came  to  see  you.    She  is  coming  here, 

Back  to  your  home  to-night.    Oh,  my  beloved  dear, 

"You  come  to  tread  a  bloody  path  of  flowers. 

All  the  gold  flowers  are  covered  up  with  blood, 

And  the  bright  bugles  blow  along  the  towers; 

The  bugles  triumph  like  the  Plate  in  flood." 

His  spilled  life  trickled  down  upon  the  mud 

Between  weak,  clutching  fingers.    "Oh,"  he  cried, 

"This  isn't  what  we  planned  here  years  ago."    He  died. 

Lion  lay  still  while  the  cold  tides  of  death 
Came  brimming  up  his  channels.    With  one  hand 
He  groped  to  know  if  Michael  still  drew  breath. 

[396] 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

His  little  hour  was  running  out  its  sand. 

Then,  in  a  mist,  he  saw  his  Mary  stand 

Above.    He  cried  aloud,  "He  was  my  brother. 

I  was  his  comrade  sworn,  and  we  have  killed  each  other. 

"Oh  desolate  grief,  beloved,  and  through  me. 

We  wise  who  try  to  change.    Oh,  you  wild  birds, 

Help  my  unhappy  spirit  to  the  sea. 

The  golden  bowl  is  scattered  into  sherds." 

And  Mary  knelt  and  murmured  passionate  words 

To  that  poor  body  on  the  dabbled  flowers: 

"Oh,  beauty,  oh,  sweet  soul,  oh,  little  love  of  ours — 

"Michael,  my  own  heart's  darling,  speak;  it's  me, 

Mary.    You  know  my  voice.    I'm  here,  dear,  here. 

Oh,  little  golden-haired  one,  listen.    See, 

It's  Mary,  Michael.    Speak  to  Mary,  dear. 

Oh,  Michael,  little  love,  he  cannot  hear; 

And  you  have  killed  him,  Lion;  he  is  dead. 

My  little  friend,  my  love,  my  Michael,  golden  head. 

"  We  had  such  fun  together,  such  sweet  fun, 

My  love  and  I,  my  merry  love  and  I. 

Oh,  love,  you  shone  upon  me  like  the  sun. 

Oh,  Michael,  say  some  little  last  good-bye." 

Then  in  a  great  voice  Lion  called,  "I  die. 

Go  home  and  tell  my  people.  Mary.    Hear. 

Though  I  have  wrought  this  ruin,  I  have  loved  you,  dear. 

"Better  than  he;  not  better,  dear,  as  well. 
If  you  could  kiss  me,  dearest,  at  this  last. 
We  have  made  bJoody  doorways  from  our  hell, 

13971 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

Cutting  our  tangle.    Now,  the  murder  past, 
We  are  but  pitiful  poor  souls;  and  fast 
The  darkness  and  the  cold  come.    Kiss  me,  sweet; 
I  loved  you  all  my  life;  but  some  lives  never  meet 

"Though  they  go  wandering  side  by  side  through  Time. 
Kiss  me,"  he  cried.    She  bent,  she  kissed  his  brow: 
"Oh,  friend,"  she  said,  "you're  lying  in  the  slime." 
"Three  blind  ones,  dear,"  he  murmured,  "in  the  slough, 
Caught  fast  for  death;  but  never  mind  that  now; 
Go  home  and  tell  my  people.    I  am  dying, 
Dying,  dear,  dying  now."    He  died;  she  left  him  lying, 

And  kissed  her  dead  one's  head  and  crossed  the  field. 

"They  have  been  killed,"  she  called,  in  a  great  crying. 

"  Killed,  and  our  spirits'  eyes  are  all  unsealed. 

The  blood  is  scattered  on  the  flowers  drying." 

It  was  the  hush  of  dusk,  and  owls  were  flying; 

They  hooted  as  the  Occleves  ran  to  bring 

That  sorry  harvest  home  from  Death's  red  harvesting- 

They  laid  the  bodies  on  the  bed  together. 
And  "You  were  beautiful,"  she  said,  "and  you 
Were  my  own  darling  in  the  April  weather. 
You  knew  my  very  soul,  you  knew,  you  knew. 
Oh,  my  sweet,  piteous  love,  I  was  not  true. 
Fetch  me  fair  water  and  the  flowers  of  spring; 
My  love  is  dead,  and  I  must  deck  his  burying." 

They  left  her  with  her  dead ;  they  could  not  choose 
But  grant  the  spirit  burning  in  her  face 
Rights  that  their  pity  urged  them  to  refuse. 

[3981 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

They  did  her  sorrow  and  the  dead  a  grace. 

All  night  they  heard  her  passing  footsteps  trace 

Down  to  the  garden  from  the  room  of  death. 

They  heard  her  singing  there,  lowly,  with  gentle  breath, 

To  the  cool  darkness  full  of  sleeping  flowers, 
Then  back,  still  singing  soft,  with  quiet  tread, 
But  at  the  dawn  her  singing  gathered  powers 
Like  to  the  dying  swan  who  lifts  his  head 
n  Eastnor,  lifts  it,  singing,  dabbled  red, 
Singing  the  glory  in  his  tumbling  mind, 
Before  the  doors  burst  in,  before  death  strikes  him  blind. 

S       ''umphing  her  song  of  love  began, 

,  across  the  meadows  like  old  woe 
Sweetened  by  poets  to  the  help  of  man 
Unconquered  in  eternal  overthrow; 
Like  a  great  trumpet  from  the  long  ago 
Her  singing  towered;  all  the  valley  heard. 
Men  jingling  down  to  meadow  stopped  their  teams  and  stirred. 

And  they,  the  Occleves,  hurried  to  the  door, 

And  burst  it,  fearing;  there  the  singer  lay 

Drooped  at  her  lover's  bedside  on  the  floor, 

Sinking  her  passionate  last  of  life  away. 

White  flowers  had  fallen  from  a  blackthorn  spray 

Over  her  loosened  hair.    Pale  flowers  of  spring 

Filled  the  white  room  of  death;  they  covered  everything. 

Primroses,  daffodils,  and  cuckoo-flowers. 
She  bowed  her  singing  head  on  Michael's  breast. 
"Oh,  it  was  sweet,"  she  cried,  "that  love  of  ours. 

[3991 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

You  were  the  dearest,  sweet;  I  loved  you  best. 

Beloved,  my  beloved,  let  me  rest 

By  you  forever,  little  Michael  mine. 

Now  the  great  hour  is  stricken,  and  the  bread  and  wine 

"Broken  and  spilt;  and  now  the  homing  birds 

Draw  to  a  covert,  Michael;  I  to  you. 

Bury  us  two  together,"  came  her  words. 

The  dropping  petals  fell  about  the  two. 

Her  heart  had  broken;  she  was  dead.    They  drew 

Her  gentle  head  aside;  they  found  it  pressed 

Against  the  broidered  'kerchief  spread  on  Michael's  breast, 

The  one  that  bore  her  name  in  Michael's  hair, 

Given  so  long  before.    They  let  her  lie, 

While  the  dim  moon  died  out  upon  the  air, 

And  happy  sunlight  coloured  all  the  sky. 

The  last  cock  crowed  for  morning;  carts  went  by; 

Smoke  rose  from  cottage  chimneys;  from  the  byre 

The  yokes  went  clanking  by,  to  dairy,  through  the  mire. 

In  the  day's  noise  the  water's  noise  was  stilled, 

But  still  it  slipped  along,  the  cold  hill-spring, 

Dropping  from  leafy  hollows,  which  it  filled, 

On  to  the  pebbly  shelves  which  made  it  sing; 

Glints  glittered  on  it  from  the  'fisher's  wing; 

It  saw  the  moorhen  nesting;  then  it  stayed 

In  a  great  space  of  reeds  where  merry  otters  played. 

Slowly  it  loitered  past  the  shivering  reeds 
Into  a  mightier  water;  thence  its  course 
Becomes  a  pasture  where  the  salmon  feeds, 

[400] 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

Wherein  no  bubble  tells  its  humble  source; 
But  the  great  waves  go  rolling,  and  the  horse 
Snorts  at  the  bursting  waves  and  will  not  drink, 
And  the  great  ships  go  outward,  bubbling  to  the  brink, 

Outward,  with  men  upon  them,  stretched  in  line, 
Handling  the  halliards  to  the  ocean's  gates, 
Where  flicking  windflaws  fill  the  air  with  brine, 
And  all  the  ocean  opens.    Then  the  mates 
Cry,  and  the  sunburnt  crew  no  longer  waits, 
But  sing  triumphant  and  the  topsail  fills 
To  this  old  tale  of  woe  among  the  daffodils. 


[401] 


2CU3H  JIO 

•  "  •;'  •• 

' 

ril  lie  bnA 

••-.(Iqmu'r. 


qEffr 

SONNETS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 
.ajar  >L 

>Q  rfidi  ,no 


Some  few  of  these  sonnets  appeared  serially  in  the  Atlantic 
Monthly,  Scribner's  Magazine,  Harper's  Monthly,  and  (perhaps) 
in  one  or  two  other  papers.  I  thank  the  Editors  of  these  papers 
for  permission  to  reprint  them  here. 

JOHN  MASEFIELD. 
London,  i6th  Dec.  1915. 


SONNETS 

Long  long  ago,  when  all  the  glittering  earth 

Was  heaven  itself,  when  drunkards  in  the  street 

Were  like  mazed  kings  shaking  at  giving  birth 

To  acts  of  war  that  sickle  men  like  wheat, 

When  the  white  clover  opened  Paradise 

And  God  lived  in  a  cottage  up  the  brook, 

Beauty,  you  lifted  up  my  sleeping  eyes 

And  filled  my  heart  with  longing  with  a  look; 

And  all  the  day  I  searched  but  could  not  find 

The  beautiful  dark-eyed  who  touched  me  there, 

Delight  in  her  made  trouble  in  my  mind, 

She  was  within  all  Nature,  everywhere, 

The  breath  I  breathed,  the  brook,  the  flower,  the  grass, 

Were  her,  her  word,  her  beauty,  all  she  was. 

Night  came  again,  but  now  I  could  not  sleep. 
The  owls  were  watching  in  the  yew,  the  mice 
Gnawed  at  the  wainscot;  the  mid  dark  was  deep, 
The  death-watch  knocked  the  dead  man's  summons  thrice. 
The  cats  upon  the  pointed  housetops  peered 
About  the  chimneys,  with  lit  eyes  which  saw 
Things  in  the  darkness,  moving,  which  they  feared. 
The  midnight  filled  the  quiet  house  with  awe. 
So,  creeping  down  the  stair,  I  drew  the  bolt 
And  passed  into  the  darkness,  and  I  knew 
That  Beauty  was  brought  near  by  my  revolt. 
Beauty  was  in  the  moonlight,  in  the  dew, 
But  more  within  myself  whose  venturous  tread 
Walked  the  dark  house  where  death  ticks  called  the  dead. 

[405! 


SONNETS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Even  after  all  these  years  there  comes  the  dream 
Of  lovelier  life  than  this  in  some  new  earth, 
In  the  full  summer  of  that  unearthly  gleam 
Which  lights  the  spirit  when  the  brain  gives  birth, 
Of  a  perfected  I,  in  happy  hours, 
Treading  above  the  sea  that  trembles  there, 
A  path  through  thickets  of  immortal  flowers 
That  only  grow  where  sorrows  never  were. 
And,  at  a  turn,  of  coming  face  to  face 
With  Beauty's  self,  that  Beauty  I  have  sought 
In  women's  hearts,  in  friends,  in  many  a  place, 
In  barren  hours  passed  at  grips  with  thought, 
Beauty  of  woman,  comrade,  earth  and  sea, 
Incarnate  thought  come  face  to  face  with  me. 

If  I  could  come  again  to  that  dear  place 

Where  once  I  came,  where  Beauty  lived  and  moved, 

Where,  by  the  sea,  I  saw  her  face  to  face, 

That  soul  alive  by  which  the  world  has  loved ; 

If,  as  I  stood  at  gaze  among  the  leaves, 

She  would  appear  again,  as  once  before, 

While  the  red  herdsman  gathered  up  his  sheaves 

And  brimming  waters  trembled  up  the  shore; 

If,  as  I  gazed,  her  Beauty  that  was  dumb, 

In  that  old  time,  before  I  learned  to  speak, 

Would  lean  to  me  and  revelation  come, 

Words  to  the  lips  and  color  to  the  cheek, 

Joy  with  its  searing-iron  would  burn  me  wise, 

I  should  know  all;  all  powers,  all  mysteries. 

Men  are  made  human  by  the  mighty  fall 
The  mighty  passion  led  to,  these  remain. 
[406] 


SONNETS 

The  despot,  at  the  last  assaulted  wall, 
By  long  disaster  is  made  man  again,   •-' 
The  faithful  fool  who  follows  the  torn  flag, 
The  woman  marching  by  the  beaten  man, 
Make  with  their  truth  atonement  for  the  brag, 
And  earn  a  pity  for  the  too  proud  plan. 
For  in  disaster,  in  the  ruined  will, 
In  the  soiled  shreds  of  what  the  brain  conceived, 
Something  above  the  wreck  is  steady  still, 
Bright  above  all  that  cannot  be  retrieved, 
Grandeur  of  soul,  a  touching  of  the  star 
That  good  days  cover  but  by  which  we  are. 


Here  in  the  self  is  all  that  man  can  know 
Of  Beauty,  all  the  wonder,  all  the  power, 
All  the  unearthly  color,  all  the  glow, 
Here  in  the  self  which  withers  like  a  flower; 
Here  in  the  self  which  fades  as  hours  pass, 
And  droops  and  dies  and  rots  and  is  forgotten, 
Sooner,  by  ages,  than  the  mirroring  glass 
In  which  it  sees  its  glory  still  unrotten. 
Here  in  the  flesh,  within  the  flesh,  behind, 
Swift  in  the  blood  and  throbbing  on  the  bone, 
Beauty  herself,  the  universal  mind, 
Eternal  April  wandering  alone. 
The  god,  the  holy  ghost,  the  atoning  lord, 
Here  in  the  flesh,  the  never  yet  explored. 

Flesh,  I  have  knocked  at  many  a  dusty  door, 
Gone  down  full  many  a  windy  midnight  lane, 
Probed  in  old  walls  and  felt  along  the  floor, 
Pressed  in  blind  hope  the  lighted  window-pane. 
[407] 


SONNETS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

But  useless  all,  though  sometimes,  when  the  moon 
Was  full  in  heaven  and  the  sea  was  full, 
Along  my  body's  alleys  came  a  tune 
Played  in  the  tavern  by  the  Beautiful. 
Then  for  an  instant  I  have  felt  at  point 
To  find  and  seize  her,  whosoe'er  she  be, 
Whether  some  saint  whose  glory  does  not  anoint 
Those  whom  she  loves,  or  but  a  part  of  me, 
Or  something  that  the  things  not  understood 
Make  for  their  uses  out  of  flesh  and  blood. 

But  all  has  passed,  the  tune  has  died  away, 

The  glamour  gone,  the  glory;  is  it  chance? 

Is  the  unfeeling  mud  stabbed  by  a  ray 

Cast  by  an  unseen  splendor's  great  advance? 

Or  does  the  glory  gather  crumb  by  crumb 

Unseen,  within,  as  coral  islands  rise, 

Till  suddenly  the  apparitions  come 

Above  the  surface,  looking  at  the  skies? 

Or  does  sweet  Beauty  dwell  in  lovely  things, 

Scattering  the  holy  hintings  of  her  name 

In  women,  in  dear  friends,  in  flowers,  in  springs, 

In  the  brook's  voice,  for  us  to  catch  the  same? 

Or  is  it  we  who  are  Beauty,  we  who  ask, 

We  by  whose  gleams  the  world  fulfils  its  task? 

These  myriad  days,  these  many  thousand  hours, 
A  man's  long  life,  so  choked  with  dusty  things, 
How  little  perfect  poise  with  perfect  powers, 
Joy  at  the  heart  and  Beauty  at  the  springs. 
One  hour,  or  two,  or  three,  in  long  years  scattered, 
Sparks  from  a  smithy  that  have  fired  a  thatch, 
[408! 


SONNETS 

Are  all  that  life  has  given  and  all  that  mattered, 
The  rest,  all  heaving  at  a  moveless  latch. 
For  these,  so  many  years  of  useless  toil, 
Despair,  endeavor,  and  again  despair, 
Sweat,  that  the  base  machine  may  have  its  oil, 
Idle  delight  to  tempt  one  everywhere. 
A  life  upon  the  cross.    To  make  amends 
Three  flaming  memories  that  the  deathbed  ends. 

There,  on  the  darkened  deathbed,  dies  the  brain 
That  flared  three  several  times  in  seventy  years; 
It  cannot  lift  the  silly  hand  again, 
Nor  speak,  nor  sing,  it  neither  sees  nor  hears. 
And  muffled  mourners  put  it  in  the  ground 
And  then  go  home,  and  in  the  earth  it  lies, 
Too  dark  for  vision  and  too  deep  for  sound, 
The  million  cells  that  made  a  good  man  wise. 
Yet  for  a  few  short  years  an  influence  stirs 
A  sense  or  wraith  or  essence  of  him  dead, 
Which  makes  insensate  things  its  ministers 
To  those  beloved,  his  spirit's  daily  bread; 
Then  that,  too,  fades;  in  book  or  deed  a  spark 
Lingers,  then  that,  too,  fades;  then  all  is  dark. 

So  in  the  empty  sky  the  stars  appear, 
Are  bright  in  heaven  marching  through  the  sky, 
Spinning  their  planets,  each  one  to  his  year, 
Tossing  their  fiery  hair  until  they  die; 
Then  in  the  tower  afar  the  watcher  sees 
The  sun,  that  burned,  less  noble  than  it  was, 
Less  noble  still,  until  by  dim  degrees, 
No  spark  of  him  is  specklike  in  his  glass. 
[409] 


SONNETS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Then  blind  and  dark  in  heaven  the  sun  proceeds, 
Vast,  dead  and  hideous,  knocking  on  his  moons, 
Till  crashing  on  his  like  creation  breeds, 
Striking  such  life  a  constellation  swoons. 
From  dead  things  striking  fire  a  new  sun  springs, 
New  fire,  new  life,  new  planets  with  new  wings. 

It  may  be  so  with  us,  that  in  the  dark, 
When  we  have  done  with  Time  and  wander  Space, 
Some  meeting  of  the  blind  may  strike  a  spark, 
And  to  Death's  empty  mansion  give  a  grace. 
It  may  be,  that  the  loosened  soul  may  find 
Some  new  delight  of  living  without  limbs, 
Bodiless  joy  of  flesh-untrammelled  mind, 
Peace  like  a  sky  where  starlike  spirit  swims. 
It  may  be,  that  the  million  cells  of  sense, 
Loosed  from  their  seventy  years'  adhesion,  pass 
Each  to  some  joy  of  changed  experience, 
Weight  in  the  earth  or  glory  in  the  grass; 
It  may  be  that  we  cease;  we  cannot  tell. 
Even  if  we  cease  life  is  a  miracle. 

Man  has  his  unseen  friend,  his  unseen  twin. 
His  straitened  spirit's  possibility, 
The  palace  unexplored  he  thinks  an  inn, 
The  glorious  garden  which  he  wanders  by. 
It  is  beside  us  while  we  clutch  at  clay 
To  daub  ourselves  that  we  may  never  see. 
Like  the  lame  donkey  lured  by  moving  hay 
We  chase  the  shade  but  let  the  real  be. 
Yet,  when  confusion  in  our  heaven  brings  stress, 
We  thrust  on  that  unseen,  get  stature  from  it, 
[410] 


SONNETS 

Cast  to  the  devil's  challenge  the  man's  yes, 
And  stream  our  fiery  hour  like  a  comet, 
And  know  for  that  fierce  hour  a  friend  behind, 
With  sword  and  shield,  the  second  to  the  mind. 

What  am  I,  Life?    A  thing  of  watery  salt 

Held  in  cohesion  by  unresting  cells, 

Which  work  they  know  not  why,  which  never  halt, 

Myself  unwitting  where  their  Master  dwells. 

I  do  not  bid  them,  yet  they  toil,  they  spin; 

A  world  which  uses  me  as  I  use  them, 

Nor  do  I  know  which  end  or  which  begin 

Nor  which  to  praise,  which  pamper,  which  condemn. 

So,  like  a  marvel  in  a  marvel  set, 

I  answer  to  the  vast,  as  wave  by  wave 

The  sea  of  air  goes  over,  dry  or  wet, 

Or  the  full  moon  comes  swimming  from  her  cave, 

Or  the  great  sun  comes  north,  this  myriad  I 

Tingles,  not  knowing  how,  yet  wondering  why. 

If  I  could  get  within  this  changing  I, 
This  ever  altering  thing  which  yet  persists, 
Keeping  the  features  it  is  reckoned  by, 
While  each  component  atom  breaks  or  twists, 
If,  wandering  past  strange  groups  of  shifting  forms, 
Cells  at  their  hidden  marvels  hard  at  work, 
Pale  from  much  toil,  or  red  from  sudden  storms, 
I  might  attain  to  where  the  Rulers  lurk. 
If,  pressing  past  the  guards  in  those  grey  gates, 
The  brain's  most  folded  intertwisted  shell, 
I  might  attain  to  that  which  alters  fates, 
The  King,  the  supreme  self,  the  Master  Cell, 
[411] 


SONNETS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Then,  on  Man's  earthly  peak,  I  might  behold 
The  unearthly  self  beyond,  unguessed,  untold. 

What  is  this  atom  which  contains  the  whole, 

This  miracle  which  needs  adjuncts  so  strange, 

This,  which  imagined  God  and  is  the  soul, 

The  steady  star  persisting  amid  change? 

What  waste,  that  smallness  of  such  power  should  need 

Such  clumsy  tools  so  easy  to  destroy, 

Such  wasteful  servants  difficult  to  feed, 

Such  indirect  dark  avenues  to  joy. 

Why,  if  its  business  is  not  mainly  earth, 

Should  it  demand  such  heavy  chains  to  sense? 

A  heavenly  thing  demands  a  swifter  birth, 

A  quicker  hand  to  act  intelligence. 

An  earthly  thing  were  better  like  the  rose 

At  peace  with  clay  from  which  its  beauty  grows. 

Ah,  we  are  neither  heaven  nor  earth,  but  men; 
Something  that  uses  and  despises  both, 
That  takes  its  earth's  contentment  in  the  pen, 
Then  sees  the  world's  injustice  and  is  wroth, 
And  flinging  off  youth's  happy  promise,  flies 
Up  to  some  breach,  despising  earthly  things, 
And,  in  contempt  of  hell  and  heaven,  dies, 
Rather  than  bear  some  yoke  of  priests  or  kings. 
Our  joys  are  not  of  heaven  nor  earth,  but  man's, 
A  woman's  beauty  or  a  child's  delight, 
The  trembling  blood  when  the  discoverer  scans 
The  sought-for  world,  the  guessed-at  satellite; 
The  ringing  scene,  the  stone  at  point  to  blush 
For  unborn  men  to  look  at  and  say  "Hush." 


SONNETS 

Roses  are  beauty,  but  I  never  see 

Those  blood  drops  from  the  burning  heart  of  June 

Glowing  like  thought  upon  the  living  tree, 

Without  a  pity  that  they  die  so  soon, 

Die  into  petals,  like  those  roses  old, 

Those  women,  who  were  summer  in  men's  hearts 

Before  the  smile  upon  the  Sphinx  was  cold, 

Or  sand  had  hid  the  Syrian  and  his  arts. 

O  myriad  dust  of  beauty  that  lies  thick 

Under  our  feet  that  not  a  single  grain 

But  stirred  and  moved  in  beauty  and  was  quick 

For  one  brief  moon  and  died  nor  lived  again; 

But  when  the  moon  rose  lay  upon  the  grass 

Pasture  to  living  beauty,  life  that  was. 

Over  the  church's  door  they  moved  a  stone 

And  there,  unguessed,  forgotten,  mortared  up, 

Lay  the  priest's  cell  where  he  had  lived  alone; 

There  was  his  ashy  hearth,  his  drinking  cup; 

There  was  the  window  whence  he  saw  the  host, 

The  god  whose  beauty  quickened  bread  and  wine, 

The  skeleton  of  a  religion  lost, 

The  ghostless  bones  of  what  had  been  divine. 

O  many  a  time  the  dusty  masons  come, 

Knocking  their  trowels  in  the  stony  brain, 

To  cells  where  perished  priests  had  once  a  home, 

Or  where  devout  brows  pressed  the  window  pane, 

Watching  the  thing  made  God,  the  god  whose  bones 

Bind  underground  our  soul's  foundation  stones. 


SONNETS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Without  the  thought  "This  living  beauty  here 
Is  earth's  remembrance  of  a  beauty  dead. 
Surely  where  all  this  glory  is  displayed 
Love  has  been  quick,  like  fire,  to  high  ends, 
Here,  in  this  grass,  an  altar  has  been  made 
For  some  white  joy,  some  sacrifice  of  friends; 
Here,  where  I  stand,  some  leap  of  human  brains 
Has  touched  immortal  things  and  left  its  trace, 
The  earth  is  happy  here,  the  gleam  remains; 
Beauty  is  here,  the  spirit  of  the  place, 
I  touch  the  faith  which  nothing  can  destroy, 
The  earth,  the  living  church  of  ancient  joy." 

Out  of  the  clouds  come  torrents,  from  the  earth 
Fire  and  quakings,  from  the  shrieking  air 
Tempests  that  harry  half  the  planet's  girth. 
Death's  unseen  seeds  are  scattered  everywhere. 
Yet  in  his  iron  cage  the  mind  of  man 
Measures  and  braves  the  terrors  of  all  these, 
The  blindest  fury  and  the  subtlest  plan 
He  turns,  or  tames,  or  shows  in  their  degrees. 
Yet  it  himself  are  forces  of  like  power, 
Untamed,  unreckoned;  seeds  that  brain  to  brain 
Pass  across  oceans  bringing  thought  to  flower, 
New  worlds,  new  selves,  where  he  can  live  again, 
Eternal  beauty's  everlasting  rose 
Which  casts  this  world  as  shadow  as  it  goes. 

O  little  self,  within  whose  smallness  lies 
All  that  man  was,  and  is,  and  will  become, 
Atom  unseen  that  comprehends  the  skies 
[414] 


SONNETS 

And  tells  the  tracks  by  which  the  planets  roam. 
That,  without  moving,  knows  the  joys  of  wings, 
The  tiger's  strength,  the  eagle's  secrecy, 
And  in  the  hovel  can  consort  with  kings, 
Or  clothe  a  god  with  his  own  mystery. 
O  with  what  darkness  do  we  cloak  thy  light, 
What  dusty  folly  gather  thee  for  food, 
Thou  who  alone  art  knowledge  and  delight, 
The  heavenly  bread,  the  beautiful,  the  good. 

0  living  self,  O  god,  O  morning  star, 
Give  us  thy  light,  forgive  us  what  we  are. 

1  went  into  the  fields,  but  you  were  there 
Waiting  for  me,  so  all  the  summer  flowers 
Were  only  glimpses  of  your  starry  powers, 
Beautiful  and  inspired  dust  they  were. 

I  went  down  by  the  waters,  and  a  bird 

Sang  with  your  voice  in  all  the  unknown  tones 

Of  all  that  self  of  you  I  have  not  heard, 

So  that  my  being  felt  you  to  the  bones. 

I  went  into  my  house,  and  shut  the  door 

To  be  alone,  but  you  were  there  with  me; 

All  beauty  in  a  little  room  may  be 

Though  the  roof  lean  and  muddy  be  the  floor. 

Then  in  my  bed  I  bound  my  tired  eyes 

To  make  a  darkness  for  my  weary  brain, 

But  like  a  presence  you  were  there  again, 

Being  and  real,  beautiful  and  wise, 

So  that  I  could  not  sleep  and  cried  aloud, 

"You  strange  grave  thing,  what  is  it  you  would  say?" 

The  redness  of  your  dear  lips  dimmed  to  grey, 

The  waters  ebbed,  the  moon  hid  in  a  cloud. 


SONNETS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

There  are  two  forms  of  life,  of  which  one  moves, 

Seeking  its  meat  in  many  forms  of  Death, 

On  scales,  on  wings,  on  all  the  myriad  hooves 

Which  stamp  earth's  exultation  in  quick  breath. 

It  rustles  through  the  reeds  in  shivering  fowl, 

Cries  over  moors  in  curlew,  glitters  green 

In  the  lynx'  eye,  is  fearful  in  the  howl 

Of  winter-bitten  wolves  whose  flanks  are  lean. 

It  takes  dumb  joy  in  cattle,  it  is  fierce, 

It  torts  the  tiger's  loin,  the  eagle's  wings, 

Its  tools  are  claws  to  smite  and  teeth  to  pierce, 

Arms  to  destroy,  and  coils,  and  poison  stings; 

Wherever  earth  is  quick  and  life  runs  red 

Its  mark  is  death,  its  meat  is  something  dead. 

Restless  and  hungry,  still  it  moves  and  slays 

Feeding  its  beauty  on  dead  beauty's  bones, 

Most  merciless  in  all  its  million  ways, 

Its  breath  for  singing  bought  by  dying  groans, 

Roving  so  far  with  such  a  zest  to  kill 

(Its  strongness  adding  hunger)  that  at  last 

Its  cells  attain  beyond  the  cruel  skill 

To  where  life's  earliest  impulses  are  past. 

Then  this  creation  of  the  linked  lusts, 

To  move  and  eat,  still  under  their  control, 

Hunts  for  his  prey  in  thought,  his  thinking  thrusts 

Through  the  untrodden  jungle  of  the  soul, 

Through  slip  and  quag,  morasses  dripping  green, 

Seeking  the  thing  supposed  but  never  seen. 

How  many  ways,  how  many  different  times 
The  tiger  Mind  has  clutched  at  what  it  sought, 
[416] 


SONNETS 

Only  to  prove  supposed  virtues  crimes, 
The  imagined  godhead  but  a  form  of  thought. 
How  many  restless  brains  have  wrought  and  schemed, 
Padding  their  cage,  or  built,  or  brought  to  law, 
Made  in  outlasting  brass  the  something  dreamed, 
Only  to  prove  themselves  the  things  of  awe, 
Yet,  in  the  happy  moment's  lightning  blink, 
Comes  scent,  or  track,  or  trace,  the  game  goes  by, 
Some  leopard  thought  is  pawing  at  the  brink, 
Chaos  below,  and,  up  above,  the  sky. 
Then  the  keen  nostrils  scent,  about,  about, 
To  prove  the  Thing  Within  a  Thing  Without. 

The  other  form  of  Living  does  not  stir; 

Where  the  seed  chances  there  it  roots  and  grows, 

To  suck  what  makes  the  lily  or  the  fir 

Out  of  the  earth  and  from  the  air  that  blows. 

Great  power  of  Will  that  little  thing  the  seed 

Has,  all  alone  in  earth,  to  plan  the  tree, 

And,  though  the  mud  oppresses,  to  succeed, 

And  put  out  branches  where  the  birds  may  be. 

Then  the  wind  blows  it,  but  the  bending  boughs 

Exult  like  billows,  and  their  million  green 

Drink  the  all-living  sunlight  in  carouse, 

Like  dainty  harts  where  forest  wells  are  clean. 

While  it,  the  central  plant,  which  looks  o'er  miles, 

Draws  milk  from  the  earth's  breast,  and  sways,  and  smiles. 

Is  there  a  great  green  commonwealth  of  Thought 
Which  ranks  the  yearly  pageant,  and  decides 
How  Summer's  royal  progress  shall  be  wrought, 
By  secret  stir  which  in  each  plant  abides? 

1 4i7l 


SONNETS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Does  rocking  daffodil  consent  that  she, 

The  snowdrop  of  wet  winters,  shall  be  first? 

Does  spotted  cowslip  with  the  grass  agree 

To  hold  her  pride  before  the  rattle  burst? 

And  in  the  hedge  what  quick  agreement  goes, 

When  hawthorn  blossoms  redden  to  decay, 

That  Summer's  pride  shall  come,  the  Summer's  rose, 

Before  the  flower  be  on  the  bramble  spray? 

Or  is  it,  as  with  us,  unresting  strife, 

And  each  consent  a  lucky  gasp  for  life? 

Beauty,  let  be;  I  cannot  see  your  face, 
I  shall  not  know  you  now,  nor  touch  your  feet, 
Only  within  me  tremble  to  your  grace 
Tasting  this  crumb  vouchsafed  which  is  so  sweet. 
Even  when  the  full-leaved  Summer  bore  no  fruit, 
You  give  me  this,  this  apple  of  man's  tree; 
This  planet  sings  when  other  spheres  were  mute, 
This  light  begins  when  darkness  covered  me. 
Now,  though  I  know  that  I  shall  never  know 
All,  through  my  fault,  nor  blazon  with  my  pen 
That  path  prepared  where  only  I  could  go, 
Still,  I  have  this,  not  given  to  other  men. 
Beauty,  this  grace,  this  spring,  this  given  bread, 
This  life,  this  dawn,  this  wakening  from  the  dead. 

Here,  where  we  stood  together,  we  three  men, 
Before  the  war  had  swept  us  to  the  East 
Three  thousand  miles  away,  I  stand  again 
And  hear  the  bells,  and  breathe,  and  go  to  feast. 
We  trod  the  same  path,  to  the  self-same  place, 
Yet  here  I  stand,  having  beheld  their  graves, 
[418] 


SONNETS 

Skyros  whose  shadows  the  great  seas  erase, 
And  Seddul  Bahr  that  ever  more  blood  craves. 
So,  since  we  communed  here,  our  bones  have  been 
Nearer,  perhaps,  than  they  again  will  be, 
Earth  and  the  world-wide  battle  lie  between, 
Death  lies  between,  and  friend-destroying  sea. 
Yet  here,  a  year  ago,  we  talked  and  stood 
As  I  stand  now,  with  pulses  beating  blood. 

I  saw  her  like  a  shadow  on  the  sky 

In  the  last  light,  a  blur  upon  the  sea, 

Then  the  gale's  darkness  put  the  shadow  by, 

But  from  one  grave  that  island  talked  to  me; 

And,  in  the  midnight,  in  the  breaking  storm, 

I  saw  its  blackness  and  a  blinking  light, 

And  thought,  "So  death  obscures  your  gentle  form, 

So  memory  strives  to  make  the  darkness  bright; 

And,  in  that  heap  of  rocks,  your  body  lies, 

Part  of  the  island  till  the  planet  ends, 

My  gentle  comrade,  beautiful  and  wise, 

Part  of  this  crag  this  bitter  surge  offends, 

While  I,  who  pass,  a  little  obscure  thing, 

War  with  this  force,  and  breathe,  and  am  its  king." 

Not  that  the  stars  are  all  gone  mad  in  heaven 
Plucking  the  unseen  reins  upon  men's  souls, 
Not  that  the  law  that  bound  the  planets  seven 
Is  discord  now;  man  probes  for  new  controls. 
He  bends  no  longer  to  the  circling  stars, 
New  moon  and  full  moon  and  the  living  sun, 
Love-making  Venus,  Jove  and  bloody  Mars 
Pass  from  their  thrones,  their  rule  of  him  is  done. 
[419] 


SONNETS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

And  paler  gods,  made  liker  men,  are  past, 
Like  their  sick  eras  to  their  funeral  urns, 
They  cannot  stand  the  fire  blown  by  the  blast 
In  which  man's  soul  that  measures  heaven  burns. 
Man  in  his  cage  of  many  millioned  pain 
Burns  all  to  ash  to  prove  if  God  remain. 

There  is  no  God,  as  I  was  taught  in  youth, 
Though  each,  according  to  his  stature,  builds 
Some  covered  shrine  for  what  he  thinks  the  truth, 
Which  day  by  day  his  reddest  heart-blood  gilds. 
There  is  no  God;  but  death,  the  clasping  sea, 
In  which  we  move  like  fish,  deep  over  deep 
Made  of  men's  souls  that  bodies  have  set  free, 
Floods  to  a  Justice  though  it  seems  asleep. 
There  is  no  God,  but  still,  behind  the  veil, 
The  hurt  thing  works,  out  of  its  agony. 
Still,  like  a  touching  of  a  brimming  Grail, 
Return  the  pennies  given  to  passers  by. 
There  is  no  God,  but  we,  who  breathe  the  air, 
Are  God  ourselves  and  touch  God  everywhere. 

Beauty  retires;  the  blood  out  of  the  earth 
Shrinks,  the  stalk  dries,  lifeless  November  still 
Drops  the  brown  husk  of  April's  greenest  birth. 
Through  the  thinned  beech  clump  I  can  see  the  hill. 
So  withers  man,  and  though  his  life  renews 
In  Aprils  of  the  soul,  an  autumn  comes 
Which  gives  an  end,  not  respite,  to  the  thews 
That  bore  his  soul  through  the  world's  martyrdoms. 
Then  all  the  beauty  will  be  out  of  mind, 
Part  of  man's  store,  that  lies  outside  his  brain, 


SONNETS 

Touch  to  the  dead  and  vision  to  the  blind, 
Drink  in  the  desert,  bread,  eternal  grain; 
Part  of  the  untilled  field  that  beauty  sows 
With  flowers  untold,  where  quickened  spirit  goes. 

Wherever  beauty  has  been  quick  in  clay 

Some  effluence  of  it  lives,  a  spirit  dwells, 

Beauty  that  death  can  never  take  away, 

Mixed  with  the  air  that  shakes  the  flower  bells; 

So  that  by  waters  where  the  apples  fall, 

Or  in  lone  glens,  or  valleys  full  of  flowers, 

Or  in  the  streets  where  bloody  tidings  call, 

The  haunting  waits  the  mood  that  makes  it  ours. 

Then  at  a  turn,  a  word,  an  act,  a  thought, 

Such  difference  comes,  the  spirit  apprehends 

That  place's  glory,  for  where  beauty  fought 

Under  the  veil  the  glory  never  ends, 

But  the  still  grass,  the  leaves,  the  trembling  flower, 

Keep,  through  dead  time,  that  everlasting  hour. 

You  are  more  beautiful  than  women  are, 
Wiser  than  men,  stronger  than  ribbed  death, 
Juster  than  Time,  more  constant  than  the  star, 
Dearer  than  love,  more  intimate  than  breath; 
Having  all  art,  all  science,  all  control 
Over  the  still  unsmithied,  even  as  Time 
Cradles  the  generations  of  man's  soul, 
You  are  the  light  to  guide,  the  way  to  climb. 
So,  having  followed  beauty,  having  bowed 
To  wisdom  and  to  death,  to  law,  to  power, 
I  like  a  blind  man  stumble  from  the  crowd 
Into  the  darkness  of  a  deeper  hour, 


SONNETS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Where  in  the  lonely  silence  I  may  wait 

The  prayed-for  gleam — your  hand  upon  the  gate. 

Out  of  the  barracks  to  the  castle  yard 

Those  Roman  soldiers  came,  buckling  their  gear; 

The  word  was  passed  that  they  were  prison  guard; 

The  sergeant  proved  their  dressing  with  his  spear. 

Then,  as  the  prisoner  came,  a  wretch  who  bled 

Holding  a  cross,  those  nearest  cursed  his  soul: 

He  might  have  died  some  other  time,  they  said, 

Not  at  high  noon:  the  sergeant  called  the  roll. 

Then,  sloping  spears,  the  files  passed  from  the  court 

Into  the  alleys,  thrusting  back  the  crowd, 

They  cursed  the  bleeding  man  for  stepping  short; 

The  drums  beat  time:  the  sergeant  hummed  aloud; 

The  rabble  closed  behind:  the  soldiers  cursed 

The  prisoner's  soul,  the  flies,  their  packs,  their  thirst. 

Not  for  the  anguish  suffered  is  the  slur, 
Not  for  the  women's  mocks,  the  taunts  of  men, 
No,  but  because  you  never  welcomed  her, 
Her  of  whose  beauty  I  am  only  the  pen. 
There  was  a  dog,  dog-minded,  with  dog's  eyes, 
Damned  by  a  dog's  brute-nature  to  be  true, 
Something  within  her  made  his  spirit  wise, 
He  licked  her  hand,  he  knew  her,  not  so  you. 
When  all  adulterate  beauty  has  gone  by, 
When  all  inanimate  matter  has  gone  down, 
We  will  arise  and  walk,  that  dog  and  I, 
The  only  two  who  knew  her  in  the  town, 
We'll  range  the  pleasant  mountains  side  by  side, 
Seeking  the  blood-stained  flowers  where  Christs  have  died. 

[422! 


SONNETS 

Beauty  was  with  me  once,  but  now,  grown  old, 

I  cannot  hear  nor  see  her:  thus  a  king 

In  the  high  turret  kept  him  from  the  cold 

Over  the  fire  with  his  magic  ring 

Which,  as  he  wrought,  made  pictures  come  and  go 

Of  men  and  times,  past,  present,  and  to  be, 

Now  like  a  smoke,  now  flame-like,  now  a  glow, 

Now  dead,  now  bright,  but  always  fantasy. 

While,  on  the  stair  without,  a  faithful  slave 

Stabbed  to  the  death,  crawled  bleeding,  whispering  "Sir, 

They  come  to  kill  you,  fly:  I  come  to  save; 

O  you  great  gods,  have  pity,  let  him  hear." 

Then,  with  his  last  strength  tapped  and  muttered,  "Sire," 

While  the  king  smiled  and  drowsed  above  the  fire. 

So  beauty  comes,  so  with  a  failing  hand 

She  knocks  and  cries,  and  fails  to  make  me  hear, 

She  who  tells  futures  in  the  falling  sand 

And  still,  by  signs,  makes  hidden  meanings  clear; 

She,  who  behind  this  many  peopled  smoke, 

Moves  in  the  light  and  struggles  to  direct, 

Through  the  deaf  ear  and  by  the  bafHed  stroke, 

The  wicked  man,  the  honored  architect. 

Yet  at  a  dawn  before  the  birds  begin, 

In  dreams,  as  the  horse  stamps  and  the  hound  stirs, 

Sleep  slips  the  bolt  and  beauty  enters  in 

Crying  aloud  those  hurried  words  of  hers, 

And  I  awake  and,  in  the  birded  dawn, 

Know  her  for  Queen  and  own  myself  a  pawn. 

If  Beauty  be  at  all,  if,  beyond  sense, 
There  be  a  wisdom  piercing  into  brains, 

[423] 


SONNETS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Why  should  the  glory  wait  on  impotence, 
Biding  its  time  till  blood  is  in  the  veins? 
There  is  no  beauty,  but  when  thought  is  quick, 
Out  of  the  noisy  sickroom  of  ourselves, 
Some  flattery  comes  to  try  to  cheat  the  sick, 
Some  drowsy  drug  is  groped  for  on  the  shelves, 
And,  for  the  rest,  we  play  upon  a  scene 
Beautiful  with  the  blood  of  living  things; 
We  move  and  speak  and  wonder  and  have  been, 
Upon  the  dust  as  dust,  not  queens  and  kings; 
We  know  no  beauty,  nor  does  beauty  care 
For  us,  this  dust,  that  men  make  everywhere. 

Each  greedy  self,  by  consecrating  lust, 

Desire  pricking  into  sacrifice, 

Adds,  in  his  way,  some  glory  to  the  dust, 

Brings,  to  the  light,  some  haze  of  Paradise, 

Hungers  and  thirsts  for  beauty;  like  the  hound 

Snaps  it,  to  eat  alone;  in  secret  keeps 

His  miser's  patch  of  consecrated  ground 

Where  beauty's  coins  are  dug  down  to  the  deeps. 

So  when  disturbing  death  digs  up  our  lives, 

Some  little  gleam  among  the  broken  soil 

May  witness  for  us  as  the  shovel  rives 

The  dirty  heap  of  all  our  tiny  toil; 

Some  gleam  of  you  may  make  the  digger  hold, 

Touched  for  an  instant  with  the  thought  of  gold. 

Time  being  an  instant  in  eternity, 
Beauty  above  man's  million  years  must  see 
The  heaped  corrupted  mass  that  had  to  die, 
The  husk  of  man  that  set  the  glitter  free; 


SONNETS 

Now,  from  those  million  bodies  in  the  dark, 

Forgotten,  rotten,  part  of  fields  or  roads, 

The  million  gleam  united  makes  a  spark 

Which  Beauty  sees  among  her  star  abodes. 

And,  from  the  bodies,  comes  a  sigh,  "Alas, 

We  hated,  fought  and  killed,  as  separate  men; 

Now  all  is  merged  and  we  are  in  the  grass, 

Our  efforts  merged,  would  we  had  known  it  then. 

All  our  lives'  battle,  all  our  spirits'  dream, 

Nought  in  themselves,  a  clash  which  made  a  gleam." 

You  will  remember  me  in  days  to  come 

With  love,  or  pride,  or  pity,  or  contempt; 

So  will  my  friends  (not  many  friends,  yet  some) 

When  this  my  life  will  be  a  dream  out-dreamt; 

And  one,  remembering  friendship  by  the  fire, 

And  one,  remembering  love  time  in  the  dark, 

And  one,  remembering  unfulfilled  desire, 

Will  sigh,  perhaps,  yet  be  beside  the  mark; 

For  this  my  body  with  its  wandering  ghost 

Is  nothing  solely  but  an  empty  grange, 

Dark  in  a  night  that  owls  inhabit  most, 

Yet  when  the  king  rides  by  there  comes  a  change; 

The  windows  gleam,  the  cresset's  fiery  hair 

Blasts  the  blown  branch  and  beauty  lodges  there. 

They  took  the  bloody  body  from  the  cross, 
They  laid  it  in  its  niche  and  rolled  the  stone. 
One  said,  "Our  blessed  Master,"  one  "His  loss 
Ends  us  companions,  we  are  left  alone." 
And  one,  "I  thought  that  Pilate  would  acquit 
Right  to  the  last;"  and  one,  "The  sergeant  took 
[425] 


SONNETS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

The  trenching  mall  and  drove  the  nails  with  it." 
One  who  was  weeping  went  apart  and  shook. 
Then  one,  "He  promised  that  in  three  short  days 
He  would  return,  oh  God;  but  He  is  dead." 
And  one,  "What  was  it  that  He  meant  to  raise? 
The  Temple?    No?    What  was  it  that  He  said? 
He  said  that  He  would  build?    That  He  would  rise?" 
"No,"  answered  one,  "but  come  from  Paradise. 

"Come  to  us  fiery  with  the  saints  of  God 

To  judge  the  world  and  take  His  power  and  reign." 

Then  one.    "This  was  the  very  road  we  trod 

That  April  day,  would  it  could  come  again; 

The  day  they  flung  the  flowers."    "Let  be,"  said  one, 

"He  was  a  lovely  soul,  but  what  He  meant 

Passes  our  wit,  for  none  among  us,  none, 

Had  brains  enough  to  fathom  His  intent. 

His  mother  did  not,  nor  could  one  of  us, 

But  while  He  spoke  I  felt  I  understood." 

And  one,  "He  knew  that  it  would  finish  thus. 

Let  His  thought  be,  I  know  that  He  was  good. 

There  is  the  orchard  see,  the  very  same 

Where  we  were  sleeping  when  the  soldiers  came." 

So  from  the  cruel  cross  they  buried  God; 
So,  in  their  desolation,  as  they  went 
They  dug  him  deeper  with  each  step  they  trod, 
Their  lightless  minds  distorting  what  He  meant. 
Lamenting  Him,  their  leader,  who  had  died, 
They  heaped  the  stones,  they  rolled  the  heavy  door; 
They  said,  "Our  glory  has  been  crucified, 
Unless  He  rise  our  glory  will  be  o'er  " 
[426] 


SONNETS 

While  in  the  grave  the  spirit  left  the  corpse 
Broken  by  torture,  slowly,  line  by  line, 
And  saw  the  dawn  come  on  the  eastern  thorpes, 
And  shook  his  wings  and  sang  in  the  divine, 
Crying  "I  told  the  truth,  even  unto  death, 
Though  I  was  earth  and  now  am  only  breath." 

If  all  be  governed  by  the  moving  stars, 

If  passing  planets  bring  events  to  be, 

Searing  the  face  of  Time  with  bloody  scars, 

Drawing  men's  souls  even  as  the  moon  the  sea; 

If  as  they  pass  they  make  a  current  pass 

Across  man's  life  and  heap  it  to  a  tide, 

We  are  but  pawns,  ignobler  than  the  grass 

Cropped  by  the  beast  and  crunched  and  tossed  aside. 

Is  all  this  beauty  that  does  inhabit  heaven 

Trail  of  a  planet's  fire?    Is  all  this  lust 

A  chymic  means  by  warring  stars  contriven 

To  bring  the  violets  out  of  Caesar's  dust  ? 

Better  be  grass,  or  in  some  hedge  unknown 

The  spilling  rose  whose  beauty  is  its  own. 

In  emptiest  furthest  heaven  where  no  stars  are 
Perhaps  some  planet  of  our  master  sun 
Still  rolls  an  unguessed  orbit  round  its  star 
Unthought,  unseen,  unknown  of  any  one. 
Roving  dead  space  according  to  its  law 
Casting  our  light  on  burnt-out  suns  and  blind 
Singing  in  the  frozen  void  its  word  of  awe 
One  wandering  thought  in  all  that  idiot  mind. 
And,  in  some  span  of  many  a  thousand  year, 
Passing  through  heaven,  its  influence  may  arouse 


SONNETS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Beauty  unguessed  in  those  who  habit  here, 
And  men  may  rise  with  glory  on  their  brows, 
And  feel  new  life  like  fire,  and  see  the  old 
Fall  from  them  dead,  the  bronze's  broken  mould. 

Perhaps  in  chasms  of  the  wasted  past, 
That  planet  wandered  within  hail  of  ours, 
And  plucked  men's  souls  to  loveliness  and  cast 
The  old,  that  was,  away,  like  husks  of  flowers; 
And  made  them  stand  erect  and  bade  them  build 
Nobler  than  hovels  plaited  in  the  mire, 
Gave  them  an  altar  and  a  god  to  gild, 
Bridled  the  brooks  for  them  and  fettered  fire; 
And,  in  another  coming,  forged  the  steel 
Which,  on  life's  scarlet  wax,  forever  set 
Longing  for  beauty  bitten  as  a  seal 
That  blood  not  clogs  nor  centuries  forget, 
That  built  Atlantis,  and,  in  time  will  raise 
That  grander  thing  whose  image  haunts  our  days. 

For,  like  an  outcast  from  the  city,  I 
Wander  the  desert  strewn  with  traveller's  bones, 
Having  no  comrade  but  the  starry  sky 
Where  the  tuned  planets  ride  their  floating  thrones. 
I  pass  old  ruins  where  the  kings  caroused 
In  cups  long  shards  from  vines  long  since  decayed, 
I  tread  the  broken  brick  where  queens  were  housed 
In  beauty's  time  ere  beauty  was  betrayed; 
And  in  the  ceaseless  pitting  of  the  sand 
On  monolith  and  pyle,  I  see  the  dawn, 
Making  those  skeletons  of  beauty  grand 
By  fire  that  comes  as  darkness  is  withdrawn; 
[428] 


SONNETS 

And  in  that  fire  the  art  of  men  to  come 
Shines  with  such  glow  I  bless  my  martyrdom. 

Death  lies  in  wait  for  you,  you  wild  thing  in  the  wood, 
Shy-footed  beauty  dear,  half-seen,  half-understood, 
Glimpsed  in  the  beech  wood  dim,  and  in  the  dropping  fir, 
Shy  like  a  fawn  and  sweet  and  beauty's  minister. 
Glimpsed  as  in  flying  clouds  by  night  the  little  moon, 
A  wonder,  a  delight,  a  paleness  passing  soon. 
Only  a  moment  held,  only  an  hour  seen, 
Only  an  instant  known  in  all  that  life  has  been, 
One  instant  in  the  sand  to  drink  that  gush  of  grace 
The  beauty  of  your  way,  the  marvel  of  your  face. 
Death  lies  in  wait  for  you,  but  few  short  hours  he  gives, 
I  perish  even  as  you  by  whom  all  spirit  lives, 
Come  to  me,  spirit,  come,  and  fill  my  hour  of  breath 
With  hours  of  life  in  life  that  pay  no  toll  to  death. 

What  are  we  given,  what  do  we  take  away? 
Five  little  senses,  startling  with  delight, 
That  dull  to  death  and  perish  into  clay 
And  pass  from  human  memory  as  from  sight. 
So  the  new  penny  glittering  from  the  mint, 
Bears  the  king's  head  awhile,  but  Time  effaces 
The  head,  the  date,  the  seated  queen,  the  print 
Even  as  a  brook  the  stone  in  pebbly  places. 
We  bear  the  stamp,  are  current,  and  are  prized, 
Hoarded  or  spent,  the  while  the  mintage  passes, 
Then,  like  light  money,  challenged  or  despised, 
We  join  the  heap  of  dross  which  Time  amasses, 
Erased,  uncurrent  discs  no  more  to  range 
The  clanging  counters  in  the  great  exchange. 

1439] 


SONNETS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

They  called  that  broken  hedge  The  Haunted  Gate. 

Strange  fires  (they  said)  burnt  there  at  moonless  times. 

Evil  was  there,  men  never  went  there  late, 

The  darkness  there  was  quick  with  threatened  crimes. 

And  then  one  digging  in  that  bloodied  clay 

Found,  but  a  foot  below,  a  rotted  chest. 

Coins  of  the  Romans,  tray  on  rusted  tray, 

Hurriedly  heaped  there  by  a  digger  prest. 

So  that  one  knew  how,  centuries  before, 

Some  Roman  flying  from  the  sack  by  night, 

Digging  in  terror  there  to  hide  his  store, 

Sweating  his  pick,  by  windy  lantern  light, 

Had  stamped  his  anguish  on  that  place's  soul, 

So  that  it  knew  and  could  rehearse  the  whole. 

There  was  an  evil  in  the  nodding  wood 

Above  the  quarry  long  since  overgrown, 

Something  which  stamped  it  as  a  place  of  blood 

Where  tortured  spirit  cried  from  murdered  bone. 

Then,  after  years,  I  saw  a  rusty  knife 

Stuck  in  a  woman's  skull,  just  as  'twas  found, 

Blackt  with  a  centuried  crust  of  clotted  life, 

In  the  red  clay  of  that  unholy  ground. 

So  that  I  knew  the  unhappy  thing  had  spoken, 

That  tongueless  thing  for  whom  the  quarry  spoke, 

The  evil  seals  of  murder  had  been  broken 

By  the  red  earth,  the  grass,  the  rooted  oak, 

The  inarticulate  dead  had  forced  the  spade, 

The  hand,  the  mind,  till  murder  was  displayed. 

Go,  spend  your  penny,  Beauty,  when  you  will, 
In  the  grave's  darkness  let  the  stamp  be  lost. 
The  water  still  will  bubble  from  the  hill, 
[430] 


SONNETS 

And  April  quick  the  meadows  with  her  ghost; 

Over  the  grass  the  daffodils  will  shiver, 

The  primroses  with  their  pale  beauty  abound, 

The  blackbird  be  a  lover  and  make  quiver 

With  his  glad  singing  the  great  soul  of  the  ground; 

So  that  if  the  body  rot,  it  will  not  matter; 

Up  in  the  earth  the  great  game  will  go  on, 

The  coming  of  Spring  and  the  running  of  the  water, 

And  the  young  things  glad  of  the  womb's  darkness  gone; 

And  the  joy  we  felt  will  be  a  part  of  the  glory 

In  the  lover's  kiss  that  makes  the  old  couple's  story. 

Not  for  your  human  beauty  nor  the  power 

To  shake  me  by  your  voice  or  by  your  touch, 

Summer  must  have  its  rose,  the  rose  must  flower, 

Beauty  burn  deep,  I  do  not  yield  to  such. 

No,  but  because  your  beauty  where  it  falls 

Lays  bare  the  spirits  in  the  crowded  streets, 

Shatters  the  lock,  destroys  the  castle  walls, 

Breaks  down  the  bars  till  friend  with  comrade  meets, 

So  that  I  wander  brains  where  beauty  dwelled 

In  long  dead  time,  and  see  again  the  rose 

By  long  dead  men  for  living  beauty  held, 

That  Death's  knife  spares,  and  Winter  with  his  snows, 

And  know  it  bloodied  by  that  pulse  of  birth 

Which  greens  the  grass  in  Aprils  upon  earth. 

The  little  robin  hopping  in  the  wood 
Draws  friendship  from  you,  the  rapt  nightingale 
Making  the  night  a  marvellous  solitude, 
Only  of  you  to  darkness  tells  the  tale. 

[43il 


SONNETS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Kingfishers  are  but  jewels  on  your  dress, 
Dun  deer  that  rove  and  timid  rabbits  shy 
Are  but  the  hintings  of  your  gentleness. 
Upon  your  wings  the  eagle  climbs  the  sky. 
Fish  that  are  shadows  in  the  water  pass 
With  mystery  from  you,  the  purpled  moth 
Dust  from  your  kirtle  on  his  broidery  has, 
Out  of  your  bounty  every  beauty  flowth. 
For  you  are  all,  all  fire,  all  living  form, 
Marvel  in  man  and  glory  in  the  worm. 

Though  in  life's  streets  the  tempting  shops  have  lured, 

Because  all  beauty,  howsoever  base, 

Is  vision  of  you,  marred,  I  have  endured 

Tempted  or  fall'n,  to  look  upon  your  face. 

Now  through  the  grinning  death's  head  in  the  paint, 

Within  the  tavern-song,  hid  in  the  wine, 

In  many  kinded  man,  emperor  and  saint, 

I  see  you  pass,  you  breath  of  the  divine. 

I  see  you  pass,  as  centuries  ago 

The  long  dead  men  with  passionate  spirit  saw, 

O  brother  man,  whom  spirit  habits  so, 

Through  your  red  sorrows  Beauty  keeps  her  law, 

Beauty  herself,  who  takes  your  dying  hand, 

To  leave  through  Time  the  Memnon  in  the  sand. 

When  all  these  million  cells  that  are  my  slaves 
Fall  from  my  pourried  ribs  and  leave  me  lone, 
A  living  speck  among  a  world  of  graves, 
What  shall  I  be,  that  spot  in  the  unknown? 
A  glow-worm  in  a  night  that  floats  the  sun? 
Or  deathless  dust  feeling  the  passer's  foot? 
[432] 


SONNETS 

An  eye  undying  mourning  things  undone? 

Or  seed  for  quickening  free  from  prisoning  fruit? 

Or  an  eternal  jewel  on  your  robe, 

Caught  to  your  heart,  one  with  the  April  fire 

That  made  me  yours  as  man  upon  the  globe, 

One  with  the  Spring,  a  breath  in  all  desire, 

One  with  the  primrose,  present  in  all  joy? 

Or  pash  that  rots,  which  pismires  can  destroy? 

Let  that  which  is  to  come  be  as  it  may, 

Darkness,  extinction,  justice,  life  intense 

The  flies  are  happy  in  the  summer  day, 

Flies  will  be  happy  many  summers  hence. 

Time  with  his  antique  breeds  that  built  the  Sphynx 

Time  with  her  men  to  come  whose  wings  will  tower, 

Poured  and  will  pour,  not  as  the  wise  man  thinks, 

But  with  blind  force,  to  each  his  little  hour. 

And  when  the  hour  has  struck,  comes  death  or  change, 

Which,  whether  good  or  ill,  we  cannot  tell, 

But  the  blind  planet  will  wander  through  her  range 

Bearing  men  like  us  who  will  serve  as  well. 

The  sun  will  rise,  the  winds  that  ever  move 

Will  blow  our  dust  that  once  were  men  in  love. 


U33l 


THE  MADMAN'S  SONG 

You  have  not  seen  what  I  have  seen, 
The  town  besieged  by  a  million  men; 
I  saw  it  though,  the  people  starved, 
My  rib-bones  here  came  through  my  skin. 
Thousands  were  killed  and  thousands  died, 
We  ate  dead  blow-flies  from  the  stalls; 
"Help  us,  O  Lord,  our  King,"  we  cried; 
He  could  not  help,  for  all  our  calls. 
No,  but  there  was  a  poor  mean  man, 
A  skinny  man  and  mad,  like  me, 
He  saw:  he  told  the  King  his  plan, 
A  plan  to  set  our  city  free. 
The  King  in  fury  had  him  bound, 
Dragged  to  the  walls  with  kick  and  curse, 
And  flung  from  off  them  to  the  ground; 
Daily  our  agonies  grew  worse. 
And  all  our  sallies  came  to  wreck, 
We  ate  the  dead  men  from  the  grave, 
Our  troops  were  killed  or  put  in  check, 
"O  King,"  we  cried,  "in  pity,  save, 
Save  us  or  we  shall  die,"  we  cried. 
He  could  not  save  us,  so  we  died. 


But  then  he  called  to  mind  the  man 
Whose  bones  the  dogs  had  picked  by  this, 
He  murmured,  "We  will  try  the  plan, 
Death  would  be  better  than  what  is. 
(4341 


THE  MADMAN'S  SONG 

I'll  try  the  madman's  plan  to-night. 
Do  I  remember  it  aright  ? " 


We  did  the  madman's  will,  we  won, 
We  left  the  million  rotting  there; 
Not  one  remained  alive,  not  one, 
The  madman's  wisdom  was  most  rare. 
We  laughed,  we  ate  again,  we  drank, 
Rebuilt  the  city,  walls  and  towers, 
We  cried  "We  have  the  King  to  thank.' 
We  strewed  his  royal  path  with  flowers. 


But  I  who  am  mad  am  wiser  now, 

I  wander  in  the  city  ditch, 

For  wisdom  grows  on  the  withered  bough. 

Flowers  are  fair  and  fruit  is  rich, 

But  wisdom  is  lovelier  than  them  all. 

So  when  the  world  is  hard  at  work, 

I  kneel  in  the  foss  below  the  wall 

On  the  rubble  where  the  lizards  lurk. 


The  goutweed  hides  the  poor  man's  bones, 
The  mint-scent  warms  in  the  hot  air, 
An  influence  comes  out  of  the  stones, 
The  dead  man's  spirit  quickens  there, 
Singing,  "  I  trod  the  piteous  way 
The  world  despised  me,  comrades  failed, 
But  from  above  an  unquenched  ray 
Burned  in  my  brain:  it  never  quailed; 
I  4351 


SONNETS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

My  body  shook,  my  mind  had  doubt, 
That  star  within  me  helped  me  on, 
Man,  the  walled  town  which  cast  me  out, 
Was  powerless  like  a  fever  gone. 
And  now  I  know  that  light  is  like  the  sea, 
I  was  the  rock  it  girt,  it  beat  on  me. 
I  was  the  deaf-mute,  blinded  by  a  curse, 
Outside  me  was  the  starry  universe 
I  had  but  to  unlatch  to  let  it  in. 
Nothing  but  mental  blindness  can  be  sin, 
All  seeing  saves,  all  hearing,  all  delight, 
I  am  a  star.    I  wander  through  the  night." 


All  day  they  loitered  by  the  resting  ships, 
Telling  their  beauties  over,  taking  stock; 
At  night  the  verdict  left  my  messmates'  lips, 
"The  Wanderer  is  the  finest  ship  in  dock." 

I  had  not  seen  her,  but  a  friend,  since  drowned, 
Drew  her,  with  painted  ports,  low,  lovely,  lean, 
Saying,    "The  Wanderer,  clipper,  outward  bound, 
The  loveliest  ship  my  eyes  have  ever  seen — 

"Perhaps  to-morrow  you  will  see  her  sail. 
She  sails  at  sunrise":  but  the  morrow  showed 
No  Wanderer  setting  forth  for  me  to  hail; 
Far  down  the  stream  men  pointed  where  she  rode, 
[436] 


THE  "WANDERER" 

Rode  the  great  trackway  to  the  sea,  dim,  dim, 
Already  gone  before  the  stars  were  gone. 
I  saw  her  at  the  sea-line's  smoky  rim 
Grow  swiftly  vaguer  as  they  towed  her  on. 

Soon  even  her  masts  were  hidden  in  the  haze 
Beyond  the  city;  she  was  on  her  course 
To  trample  billows  for  a  hundred  days; 
That  afternoon  the  norther  gathered  force, 

Blowing  a  small  snow  from  a  point  of  east. 
"Oh,  fair  for  her,"  we  said,  "to  take  her  south." 
And  in  our  spirits,  as  the  wind  increased, 
We  saw  her  there,  beyond  the  river  mouth, 

Setting  her  side-lights  in  the  wildering  dark, 
To  glint  upon  mad  water,  while  the  gale 
Roared  like  a  battle,  snapping  like  a  shark, 
And  drunken  seamen  struggle  with  the  sail. 

While  with  sick  hearts  her  mates  put  out  of  mind 
Their  little  children  left  astern,  ashore, 
And  the  gale's  gathering  made  the  darkness  blind, 
Water  and  air  one  intermingled  roar. 

Then  we  forgot  her,  for  the  fiddlers  played, 
Dancing  and  singing  held  our  merry  crew; 
The  old  ship  moaned  a  little  as  she  swayed. 
It  blew  all  night,  oh,  bitter  hard  it  blew! 
1 4371 


SONNETS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

So  that  at  midnight  I  was  called  on  deck 
To  keep  an  anchor-watch:  I  heard  the  sea 
Roar  past  in  white  procession  filled  with  wreck; 
Intense  bright  frosty  stars  burned  over  me, 

And  the  Greek  brig  beside  us  dipped  and  dipped, 
White  to  the  muzzle  like  a  half-tide  rock, 
Drowned  to  the  mainmast  with  the  seas  she  shipped; 
Her  cable-swivels  clanged  at  every  shock. 

And  like  a  never-dying  force,  the  wind 
Roared  till  we  shouted  with  it,  roared  until 
Its  vast  vitality  of  wrath  was  thinned, 
Had  beat  its  fury  breathless  and  was  still. 

By  dawn  the  gale  had  dwindled  into  flaw, 
A  glorious  morning  followed:  with  my  friend 
I  climbed  the  fo'c's'le-head  to  see;  we  saw 
The  waters  hurrying  shorewards  without  end. 

Haze  blotted  out  the  river's  lowest  reach; 
Out  of  the  gloom  the  steamers,  passing  by, 
Called  with  their  sirens,  hooting  their  sea-speech; 
Out  of  the  dimness  others  made  reply. 

And  as  we  watched,  there  came  a  rush  of  feet 
Charging  the  fo'c's'le  till  the  hatchway  shook. 
Men  all  about  us  thrust  their  way,  or  beat, 
Crying,  "The  Wanderer!    Down  the  river!    Look!" 

I  looked  with  them  towards  the  dimness;  there 
Gleamed  like  a  spirit  striding  out  of  night, 
[4381 


THE  "WANDERER" 

A  full-rigged  ship  unutterably  fair, 

Her  masts  like  trees  in  winter,  frosty-bright. 

Foam  trembled  at  her  bows  like  wisps  of  wool; 
She  trembled  as  she  towed.    I  had  not  dreamed 
That  work  of  man  could  be  so  beautiful, 
In  its  own  presence  and  in  what  it  seemed. 

"So,  she  is  putting  back  again,"  I  said. 
"How  white  with  frost  her  yards  are  on  the  fore." 
One  of  the  men  about  me  answer  made, 
"That  is  not  frost,  but  all  her  sails  are  tore, 

"Torn  into  tatters,  youngster,  in  the  gale; 
Her  best  foul-weather  suit  gone."    It  was  true, 
Her  masts  were  white  with  rags  of  tattered  sail 
Many  as  gannets  when  the  fish  are  due. 

Beauty  in  desolation  was  her  pride, 
Her  crowned  array  a  glory  that  had  been; 
She  faltered  tow'rds  us  like  a  swan  that  died, 
But  although  ruined  she  was  still  a  queen. 

"Put  back  with  all  her  sails  gone,"  went  the  word; 
Then,  from  her  signals  flying,  rumour  ran, 
"The  sea  that  stove  her  boats  in  killed  her  third; 
She  has  been  gutted  and  has  lost  a  man." 

So,  as  though  stepping  to  a  funeral  march, 
She  passed  defeated  homewards  whence  she  came, 
Ragged  with  tattered  canvas  white  as  starch, 
A  wild  bird  that  misfortune  had  made  tame. 
1439] 


SONNETS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

She  was  refitted  soon:  another  took 
The  dead  man's  office;  then  the  singers  hove 
Her  capstan  till  the  snapping  hawsers  shook; 
Out,  with  a  bubble  at  her  bows,  she  drove. 

Again  they  towed  her  seawards,  and  again 

We,  watching,  praised  her  beauty,  praised  her  trim, 

Saw  her  fair  house-flag  flutter  at  the  main, 

And  slowly  saunter  seawards,  dwindling  dim; 

And  wished  her  well,  and  wondered,  as  she  died, 
How,  when  her  canvas  had  been  sheeted  home, 
Her  quivering  length  would  sweep  into  her  stride, 
Making  the  greenness  milky  with  her  foam. 

But  when  we  rose  next  morning,  we  discerned 
Her  beauty  once  again  a  shattered  thing; 
Towing  to  dock  the  Wanderer  returned, 
A  wounded  sea-bird  with  a  broken  wing. 

A  spar  was  gone,  her  rigging's  disarray 
Told  of  a  worse  disaster  than  the  last; 
Like  draggled  hair  dishevelled  hung  the  stay. 
Drooping  and  beating  on  the  broken  mast. 

Half-mast  upon  her  flagstaff  hung  her  flag; 
Word  went  among  us  how  the  broken  spar 
Had  gored  her  captain  like  an  angry  stag, 
And  killed  her  mate  a  half-day  from  the  bar. 

She  passed  to  dock  upon  the  top  of  flood. 

An  old  man  near  me  shook  his  head  and  swore: 

[440] 


THE  "WANDERER" 

"Like  a  bad  woman,  she  has  tasted  blood — 
There'll  be  no  trusting  in  her  any  more." 

We  thought  it  truth,  and  when  we  saw  her  there 
Lying  in  dock,  beyond,  across  the  stream, 
We  would  forget  that  we  had  called  her  fair, 
We  thought  her  murderess  and  the  past  a  dream. 

And  when  she  sailed  again,  we  watched  in  awe, 
Wondering  what  bloody  act  her  beauty  planned, 
What  evil  lurked  behind  the  thing  we  saw, 
What  strength  was  there  that  thus  annulled  man's  hand, 

How  next  its  triumph  would  compel  man's  will 
Into  compliance  with  external  Fate, 
How  next  the  powers  would  use  her  to  work  ill 
On  suffering  men;  we  had  not  long  to  wait. 

For  soon  the  outcry  of  derision  rose, 
"Here  comes  the  Wanderer!"  the  expected  cry. 
Guessing  the  cause,  our  mockings  joined  with  those 
Yelled  from  the  shipping  as  they  towed  her  by. 

She  passed  us  close,  her  seamen  paid  no  heed 
To  what  was  called:  they  stood,  a  sullen  group, 
Smoking  and  spitting,  careless  of  her  need, 
Mocking  the  orders  given  from  the  poop. 

Her  mates  and  boys  were  working  her;  we  stared. 
What  was  the  reason  of  this  strange  return, 
This  third  annulling  of  the  thing  prepared  ? 
No  outward  evil  could  our  eyes  discern. 


SONNETS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Only  like  one  who  having  formed  a  plan 
Beyond  the  pitch  of  common  minds,  she  sailed, 
Mocked  and  deserted  by  the  common  man, 
Made  half  divine  to  me  for  having  failed. 

We  learned  the  reason  soon;  below  the  town 
A  stay  had  parted  like  a  snapping  reed, 
"Warning,"  the  men  thought,  "not  to  take  her  down." 
They  took  the  omen,  they  would  not  proceed. 

Days  passed  before  another  crew  would  sign. 
The  Wanderer  lay  in  dock  alone,  unmanned, 
Feared  as  a  thing  possessed  by  powers  malign, 
Bound  under  curses  not  to  leave  the  land. 

But  under  passing  Time  fear  passes  too; 
That  terror  passed,  the  sailors'  hearts  grew  bold. 
We  learned  in  time  that  she  had  found  a  crew 
And  was  bound  out  and  southwards  as  of  old. 

And  in  contempt  we  thought,  "A  little  while 
Will  bring  her  back  again,  dismantled,  spoiled. 
It  is  herself;  she  cannot  change  her  style; 
She  has  the  habit  now  of  being  foiled." 

So  when  a  ship  appeared  among  the  haze, 
We  thought,  "The  Wanderer  back  again";  but  no, 
No  Wanderer  showed  for  many,  many  days, 
Her  passing  lights  made  other  waters  glow. 

But  we  would  often  think  and  talk  of  her, 
Tell  newer  hands  her  story,  wondering,  then, 

[442] 


THE  "WANDERER" 

Upon  what  ocean  she  was  Wanderer, 
Bound  to  the  cities  built  by  foreign  men. 

And  one  by  one  our  little  conclave  thinned, 
Passed  into  ships  and  sailed  and  so  away, 
To  drown  in  some  great  roaring  of  the  wind, 
Wanderers  themselves,  unhappy  fortune's  prey. 

And  Time  went  by  me  making  memory  dim, 
Yet  still  I  wondered  if  the  Wanderer  fared 
Still  pointing  to  the  unreached  ocean's  rim, 
Brightening  the  water  where  her  breast  was  bared. 

And  much  in  ports  abroad  I  eyed  the  ships, 
Hoping  to  see  her  well-remembered  form 
Come  with  a  curl  of  bubbles  at  her  lips 
Bright  to  her  berth,  the  sovereign  of  the  storm. 

I  never  did,  and  many  years  went  by, 
Then,  near  a  Southern  port,  one  Christmas  Eve, 
I  watched  a  gale  go  roaring  through  the  sky, 
Making  the  caldrons  of  the  clouds  upheave. 

Then  the  wrack  tattered  and  the  stars  appeared, 
Millions  of  stars  that  seemed  to  speak  in  fire; 
A  byre  cock  cried  aloud  that  morning  neared, 
The  swinging  wind-vane  flashed  upon  the  spire. 

And  soon  men  looked  upon  a  glittering  earth, 
Intensely  sparkling  like  a  world  new-born; 
Only  to  look  was  spiritual  birth, 
So  bright  the  raindrops  ran  along  the  thorn. 
(4431 


SONNETS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

So  bright  they  were,  that  one  could  almost  pass 
Beyond  their  twinkling  to  the  source,  and  know 
The  glory  pushing  in  the  blade  of  grass, 
That  hidden  soul  which  makes  the  flowers  grow. 

That  soul  was  there  apparent,  not  revealed, 
Unearthly  meanings  covered  every  tree, 
That  wet  grass  grew  in  an  immortal  field 
Those  waters  fed  some  never-wrinkled  sea. 

The  scarlet  berries  in  the  hedge  stood  out 
Like  revelations  but  the  tongue  unknown; 
Even  in  the  brooks  a  joy  was  quick:  the  trout 
Rushed  in  a  dumbness  dumb  to  me  alone. 

All  of  the  valley  was  aloud  with  brooks; 
I  walked  the  morning,  breasting  up  the  fells, 
Taking  again  lost  childhood  from  the  rooks, 
Whose  cawing  came  above  the  Christmas  bells. 

I  had  not  walked  that  glittering  world  before, 
But  up  the  hill  a  prompting  came  to  me, 
"This  line  of  upland  runs  along  the  shore: 
Beyond  the  hedgerow  I  shall  see  the  sea." 

And  on  the  instant  from  beyond  away 

That  long  familiar  sound,  a  ship's  bell,  broke 

The  hush  below  me  in  the  unseen  bay. 

Old  memories  came:  that  inner  prompting  spoke. 

And  bright  above  the  hedge  a  seagull's  wings 
Flashed  and  were  steady  upon  empty  air. 
[444  J 


THE  "WANDERER" 

"A  Power  unseen,"  I  cried,  "prepares  these  things; 
Those  are  her  bells,  the  Wanderer  is  there." 

So,  hurrying  to  the  hedge  and  looking  down, 
I  saw  a  mighty  bay's  wind-crinkled  blue 
Ruffling  the  image  of  a  tranquil  town, 
With  lapsing  waters  glittering  as  they  grew. 

And  near  me  in  the  road  the  shipping  swung, 
So  stately  and  so  still  in  such  great  peace 
That  like  to  drooping  crests  their  colours  hung, 
Only  their  shadows  trembled  without  cease. 

I  did  but  glance  upon  those  anchored  ships. 
Even  as  my  thought  had  told,  I  saw  her  plain; 
Tense,  like  a  supple  athlete  with  lean  hips, 
Swiftness  at  pause,  the  Wanderer  come  again — 

Come  as  of  old  a  queen,  untouched  by  Time, 
Resting  the  beauty  that  no  seas  could  tire, 
Sparkling,  as  though  the  midnight's  rain  were  rime, 
Like  a  man's  thought  transfigured  into  fire. 

And  as  I  looked,  one  of  her  men  began 
To  sing  some  simple  tune  of  Christmas  day; 
Among  her  crew  the  song  spread,  man  to  man, 
Until  the  singing  rang  across  the  bay; 

And  soon  in  other  anchored  ships  the  men 
Joined  in  the  singing  with  clear  throats,  until 
The  farm-boy  heard  it  up  the  windy  glen, 
Above  the  noise  of  sheep-bells  on  the  hill. 
1 4451 


SONNETS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Over  the  water  came  the  lifted  song — 
Blind  pieces  in  a  mighty  game  we  swing; 
Life's  battle  is  a  conquest  for  the  strong; 
The  meaning  shows  in  the  defeated  thing. 


AUGUST,  1914 

How  still  this  quiet  cornfield  is  to-night! 
By  an  intenser  glow  the  evening  falls, 
Bringing,  not  darkness,  but  a  deeper  light; 
Among  the  stocks  a  partridge  covey  calls. 

The  windows  glitter  on  the  distant  hill; 
Beyond  the  hedge  the  sheep-bells  in  the  fold 
Stumble  on  sudden  music  and  are  still; 
The  forlorn  pinewoods  droop  ab.ove  the  wold. 

An  endless  quiet  valley  reaches  out 
Past  the  blue  hills  into  the  evening  sky; 
Over  the  stubble,  cawing  goes  a  rout 
Of  rooks  from  harvest,  flagging  as  they  fly. 

So  beautiful  it  is,  I  never  saw 
So  great  a  beauty  on  these  English  fields, 
Touched  by  the  twilight's  coming  into  awe, 
Ripe  to  the  soul  and  rich  with  summer's  yields. 


These  homes,  this  valley  spread  below  me  here, 

The  rooks,  the  tilted  stacks,  the  beasts  in  pen, 

[446] 


AUGUST,  1914 

Have  been  the  heartfelt  things,  past-speaking  dear 
To  unknown  generations  of  dead  men, 

Who,  century  after  century,  held  these  farms, 
And,  looking  out  to  watch  the  changing  sky, 
Heard,  as  we  hear,  the  rumours  and  alarms 
Of  war  at  hand  and  danger  pressing  nigh. 

And  knew,  as  we  know,  that  the  message  meant 
The  breaking  off  of  ties,  the  loss  of  friends, 
Death,  like  a  miser  getting  in  his  rent, 
And  no  new  stones  laid  where  the  trackway  ends. 

The  harvest  not  yet  won,  the  empty  bin, 
The  friendly  horses  taken  from  the  stalls, 
The  fallow  on  the  hill  not  yet  brought  in, 
The  cracks  unplastered  in  the  leaking  walls. 

Yet  heard  the  news,  and  went  discouraged  home, 
And  brooded  by  the  fire  with  heavy  mind, 
With  such  dumb  loving  of  the  Berkshire  loam 
As  breaks  the  dumb  hearts  of  the  English  kind, 

Then  sadly  rose  and  left  the  well-loved  Downs, 
And  so  by  ship  to  sea,  and  knew  no  more 
The  fields  of  home,  the  byres,  the  market  towns, 
Nor  the  dear  outline  of  the  English  shore, 

But  knew  the  misery  of  the  soaking  trench, 
The  freezing  in  the  rigging,  the  despair 
In  the  revolting  second  of  the  wrench 
When  the  blind  soul  is  flung  upon  the  air, 
[447] 


SONNETS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

And  died  (uncouthly,  most)  in  foreign  lands 
For  some  idea  but  dimly  understood 
Of  an  English  city  never  built  by  hands 
Which  love  of  England  prompted  and  made  good. 


If  there  be  any  life  beyond  the  grave, 
It  must  be  near  the  men  and  things  we  love, 
Some  power  of  quick  suggestion  how  to  save, 
Touching  the  living  soul  as  from  above. 

An  influence  from  the  Earth  from  those  dead  hearts 
So  passionate  once,  so  deep,  so  truly  kind, 
That  in  the  living  child  the  spirit  starts, 
Feeling  companioned  still,  not  left  behind. 

Surely  above  these  fields  a  spirit  broods, 
A  sense  of  many  watchers  muttering  near 
Of  the  lone  Downland  with  the  forlorn  woods 
Loved  to  the  death,  inestimably  dear. 

A  muttering  from  beyond  the  veils  of  Death 
From  long-dead  men,  to  whom  this  quiet  scene 
Came  among  blinding  tears  with  the  last  breath, 
The  dying  soldier's  vision  of  his  queen. 

All  the  unspoken  worship  of  those  lives 
Spent  in  forgotten  wars  at  other  calls 
Glimmers  upon  these  fields  where  evening  drives 
Beauty  like  breath,  so  gently  darkness  falls. 
[4481 


THE  RIVER 

Darkness  that  makes  the  meadows  holier  still, 
The  elm-trees  sadden  in  the  hedge,  a  sigh 
Moves  in  the  beech-clump  on  the  haunted  hill, 
The  rising  planets  deepen  in  the  sky, 

And  silence  broods  like  spirit  on  the  brae, 
A  glimmering  moon  begins,  the  moonlight  runs 
Over  the  grasses  of  the  ancient  way 
Rutted  this  morning  by  the  passing  guns. 


THE  RIVER 

All  other  waters  have  their  time  of  peace. 
Calm,  or  the  turn  of  tide  or  summer  drought; 
But  on  these  bars  the  tumults  never  cease, 
In  violent  death  this  river  passes  out. 

Brimming  she  goes,  a  bloody-coloured  rush 
Hurrying  her  heaped  disorder,  rank  on  rank, 
Bubbleless  speed  so  still  that  in  the  hush 
One  hears  the  mined  earth  dropping  from  the  bank, 

Slipping  in  little  falls  whose  tingeings  drown, 
Sunk  by  the  waves  for  ever  pressing  on. 
Till  with  a  stripping  crash  the  tree  goes  down, 
Its  washing  branches  flounder  and  are  gone. 

Then,  roaring  out  aloud,  her  water  spreads, 
Making  a  desolation  where  her  waves 
[449] 


SONNETS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Shriek  and  give  battle,  tossing  up  their  heads, 
Tearing  the  shifting  sandbanks  into  graves, 

Changing  the  raddled  ruin  of  her  course 
So  swiftly,  that  the  pilgrim  on  the  shore 
Hears  the  loud  whirlpool  laughing  like  a  horse 
Where  the  scurfed  sand  was  parched  an  hour  before. 

And  always  underneath  that  heaving  tide 
The  changing  bottom  runs,  or  piles,  or  quakes 
Flinging  immense  heaps  up  to  wallow  wide, 
Sucking  the  surface  into  whirls  like  snakes, 

If  anything  should  touch  that  shifting  sand, 
All  the  blind  bottom  sucks  it  till  it  sinks; 
It  takes  the  clipper  ere  she  comes  to  land, 
It  takes  the  thirsting  tiger  as  he  drinks. 

And  on  the  river  pours — it  never  tires; 

Blind,  hungry,  screaming,  day  and  night  the  same 

Purposeless  hurry  of  a  million  ires, 

Mad  as  the  wind,  as  merciless  as  flame. 


There  was  a  full-rigged  ship,  the  Travancore, 
Towing  to  port  against  that  river's  rage — 
A  glittering  ship  made  sparkling  for  the  shore, 
Taut  to  the  pins  in  all  her  equipage. 

Ganging,  she  topped  the  tide;  her  sails  were  furled, 
Her  men  came  loitering  downwards  from  the  yards; 


THE  RIVER 

They  who  had  brought  her  half  across  the  world, 
Trampling  so  many  billows  into  shards, 

Now  looking  up,  beheld  their  duty  done, 
The  ship  approaching  port,  the  great  masts  bare, 
Gaunt  as  three  giants  striding  in  the  sun, 
Proud,  with  the  colours  tailing  out  like  hair. 

So,  having  coiled  their  gear,  they  left  the  deck; 
Within  the  fo'c's'le's  gloom  of  banded  steel, 
Mottled  like  wood  with  many  a  painted  speck, 
They  brought  their  plates  and  sat  about  a  meal. 

Then  pushing  back  the  tins,  they  lit  their  pipes, 
Or  slept,  or  played  at  cards,  or  gently  spoke, 
Light  from  the  portholes  shot  in  dusty  stripes 
Tranquilly  moving,  sometimes  blue  with  smoke. 

These  sunbeams  sidled  when  the  vessel  rolled, 
Their  lazy  dust-strips  crossed  the  floor, 
Lighting  a  man-hole  leading  to  the  hold, 
A  man-hole  leaded  down  the  day  before. 

Like  gold  the  solder  on  the  man-hole  shone; 
A  few  flies  threading  in  a  drowsy  dance 
Slept  in  their  pattern,  darted,  and  were  gone. 
The  river  roared  against  the  ship's  advance. 

And  quietly  sleep  came  upon  the  crew, 
Man  by  man  drooped  upon  his  arms  and  slept; 
Without,  the  tugboat  dragged  the  vessel  through, 
The  rigging  whined,  the  yelling  water  leapt, 


SONNETS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Till  blindly  a  careering  wave's  collapse 
Rose  from  beneath  her  bows  and  spouted  high, 
Spirting  the  fo'c'sle  floor  with  noisy  slaps; 
A  sleeper  at  the  table  heaved  a  sigh, 

And  lurched,  half-drunk  with  sleep,  across  the  floor, 
Muttering  and  blinking  like  a  man  insane, 
Cursed  at  the  river's  tumult,  shut  the  door, 
Blinked,  and  lurched  back  and  fell  asleep  again. 

Then  there  was  greater  silence  in  the  room, 
Ship's  creakings  ran  along  the  beams  and  died, 
The  lazy  sunbeams  loitered  up  the  gloom, 
Stretching  and  touching  till  they  reached  the  side. 


Yet  something  jerking  in  the  vessel's  course 
Told  that  the  tug  was  getting  her  in  hand 
As,  at  a  fence,  one  steadies  down  a  horse, 
To  rush  the  whirlpool  on  Magellan  Sand; 

And  in  the  uneasy  water  just  below 

Her  Mate  inquired  "if  the  men  should  stir 

And  come  on  deck?"    Her  Captain  answered  "No, 

Let  them  alone,  the  tug  can  manage  her." 

Then,  as  she  settled  down  and  gathered  speed, 
Her  Mate  inquired  again  "if  they  should  come 
Just  to  be  ready  there  in  case  of  need, 
Since,  on  such  godless  bars,  there  might  be  some." 

Us*] 


THE  RIVER 

But  "No,"  the  Captain  said,  "the  men  have  been 
Boxing  about  since  midnight,  let  them  be. 
The  pilot's  able  and  the  ship's  a  queen, 
The  hands  can  rest  until  we  come  to  quay." 

They  ceased,  they  took  their  stations;  right  ahead 
The  whirlpool  heaped  and  sucked;  in  tenor  tone 
The  steady  leadsman  chanted  at  the  lead, 
The  ship  crept  forward  trembling  to  the  bone. 

And  just  above  the  worst  a  passing  wave 
Brought  to  the  line  such  unexpected  stress 
That  as  she  tossed  her  bows  her  towrope  gave, 
Snapped  at  the  collar  like  a  stalk  of  cress. 

Then,  for  a  ghastly  moment,  she  was  loose, 
Blind  in  the  whirlpool,  groping  for  a  guide, 
Swinging  adrift  without  a  moment's  truce, 
She  struck  the  sand  and  fell  upon  her  side. 

And  instantly  the  sand  beneath  her  gave 
So  that  she  righted  and  again  was  flung, 
Grinding  the  quicksand  open  for  a  grave, 
Straining  her  masts  until  the  steel  was  sprung. 

The  foremast  broke;  its  mighty  bulk  of  steel 
Fell  on  the  fo'c'sle  door  and  jammed  it  tight; 
The  sand-rush  heaped  her  to  an  even  keel, 
She  settled  down,  resigned,  she  made  no  fight, 

But,  like  an  overladen  beast,  she  lay 
Dumb  in  the  mud  with  billows  at  her  lips, 
US3l 


SONNETS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Broken,  where  she  had  fallen  in  the  way, 
Grinding  her  grave  among  the  bones  of  ships. 


At  the  first  crashing  of  the  mast,  the  men 
Sprang  from  their  sleep  to  hurry  to  the  deck; 
They  found  that  Fate  had  caught  them  in  a  pen, 
The  door  that  opened  out  was  jammed  with  wreck. 

Then,  as,  with  shoulders  down,  their  gathered  strength 
Hove  on  the  door,  but  could  not  make  it  stir, 
They  felt  the  vessel  tremble  through  her  length; 
The  tug,  made  fast  again,  was  plucking  her. 

Plucking,  and  causing  motion,  till  it  seemed 
That  she  would  get  her  off;  they  heard  her  screw 
Mumble  the  bubbled  rip-rap  as  she  steamed; 
"Please  God,  the  tug  will  shift  her!"  said  the  crew. 

"She's  off!"  the  seamen  said;  they  felt  her  glide, 
Scraping  the  bottom  with  her  bilge,  until 
Something  collapsing  clanged  along  her  side; 
The  scraping  stopped,  the  tugboat's  screw  was  still. 

"She's  holed!"  a  voice  without  cried;  "holed  and  jammed- 
Holed  on  the  old  Magellan,  sunk  last  June. 
I  lose  my  ticket  and  the  men  are  damned; 
They'll  drown  like  rats  unless  we  free  them  soon. 

"My  God,  they  shall  not!"  and  the  speaker  beat 
Blows  with  a  crow  upon  the  foremast's  wreck; 

[4541 


THE  RIVER 

Minute  steel  splinters  fell  about  his  feet, 
No  tremour  stirred  the  ruin  on  the  deck. 

And  as  their  natures  bade,  the  seamen  learned 
That  they  were  doomed  within  that  buried  door; 
Some  cursed,  some  raved,  but  one  among  them  turned 
Straight  to  the  manhole  leaded  in  the  floor, 

And  sitting  down  astride  it,  drew  his  knife, 
And  staidly  dug  to  pick  away  the  lead, 
While  at  the  ports  his  fellows  cried  for  life: 
"Burst  in  the  door,  or  we  shall  all  be  dead!" 

For  like  a  brook  the  leak  below  them  clucked. 
They  felt  the  vessel  settling;  they  could  feel 
How  the  blind  bog  beneath  her  gripped  and  sucked. 
Their  fingers  beat  their  prison  walls  of  steel. 

And  then  the  gurgling  stopped — the  ship  was  still. 
She  stayed;  she  sank  no  deeper — an  arrest 
Pothered  the  pouring  leak;  she  ceased  to  fill. 
She  trod  the  mud,  drowned  only  to  the  breast. 

And  probing  at  the  well,  the  captain  found 
The  leak  no  longer  rising,  so  he  cried: 
"She  is  not  sinking —  you  will  not  be  drowned; 
The  shifting  sand  has  silted  up  her  side. 

"Now  there  is  time.    The  tug  shall  put  ashore 
And  fetch  explosives  to  us  from  the  town; 
I'll  burst  the  house  or  blow  away  the  door 
(It  will  not  kill  you  if  you  all  lie  down). 

[455] 


SONNETS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

"  Be  easy  in  your  minds,  for  you'll  be  free 

As  soon  as  we've  the  blast."    The  seamen  heard 

The  tug  go  townwards,  butting  at  the  sea; 

Some  lit  their  pipes,  the  youngest  of  them  cheered. 

But  still  the  digger  bent  above  the  lid, 
Gouging  the  solder  from  it  as  at  first, 
Pecking  the  lead,  intent  on  what  he  did; 
The  other  seamen  mocked  at  him  or  cursed. 

And  some  among  them  nudged  him  as  he  picked. 
He  cursed  them,  grinning,  but  resumed  his  game; 
His  knife-point  sometimes  struck  the  lid  and  clicked. 
The  solder-pellets  shone  like  silver  flame. 

And  still  his  knife-blade  clicked  like  ticking  time 
Counting  the  hour  till  the  tug's  return, 
And  still  the  ship  stood  steady  on  the  slime, 
While  Fate  above  her  fingered  with  her  urn. 


Then  from  the  tug  beside  them  came  the  hail: 
"They  have  none  at  the  stores,  nor  at  the  dock, 
Nor  at  the  quarry,  so  I  tried  the  gaol. 
They  thought  they  had,  but  it  was  out  of  stock. 

"So  then  I  telephoned  to  town;  they  say 
They've  sent  an  engine  with  some  to  the  pier; 
I  did  not  leave  till  it  was  on  its  way, 
A  tug  is  waiting  there  to  bring  it  here: 

"It  can't  be  here,  though,  for  an  hour  or  more; 
I've  lost  an  hour  in  trying,  as  it  is. 
[456] 


THE  RIVER 

For  want  of  thought  commend  me  to  the  shore. 
You'd  think  they'd  know  their  river's  ways  by  this." 

"So  there  is  nothing  for  it  but  to  wait," 

The  Captain  answered,  fuming.     "Until  then, 

We'd  better  go  to  dinner,  Mr.  Mate." 

The  cook  brought  dinner  forward  to  the  men. 


Another  hour  of  prison  loitered  by; 
The  strips  of  sunlight  stiffened  at  the  port, 
But  still  the  digger  made  the  pellets  fly, 
Paying  no  heed  to  his  companions'  sport, 

While  they,  about  him,  spooning  at  their  tins, 
Asked  if  he  dug  because  he  found  it  cold, 
Or  whether  it  was  penance  for  his  sins, 
Or  hope  of  treasure  in  the  forward  hold. 

He  grinned  and  cursed,  but  did  not  cease  to  pick, 
His  sweat  dropped  from  him  when  he  bent  his  head. 
His  knife-blade  quarried  down,  till  with  a  click 
Its  grinded  thinness  snapped  against  the  lead. 

Then,  dully  rising,  brushing  back  his  sweat, 

He  asked  his  fellows  for  another  knife. 

"Never,"  they  said;  "man,  what  d'ye  hope  to  get?" 

"Nothing,"  he  said,  "except  a  chance  for  life." 

"  Havers,"  they  said,  and  one  among  them  growled, 
"You'll  get  no  knife  from  any  here  to  break. 
You've  dug  the  manhole  since  the  door  was  fouled, 
And  now  your  knife's  broke,  quit,  for  Jesus'  sake." 
[457] 


SONNEST  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

But  one,  who  smelt  a  bargain,  changed  his  tone, 
Offering  a  sheath-knife  for  the  task  in  hand 
At  twenty  times  its  value,  as  a  loan 
To  be  repaid  him  when  they  reached  the  land. 

And  there  was  jesting  at  the  lender's  greed 
And  mockery  at  the  digger's  want  of  sense, 
Closing  with  such  a  bargain  without  need, 
Since  in  an  hour  the  tug  would  take  them  thence. 

But  "Right,"  the  digger  said.    The  deal  was  made 
He  took  the  borrowed  knife,  and  sitting  down 
Gouged  at  the  channelled  solder  with  the  blade, 
Saying,  "Let  be,  it's  better  dig  than  drown." 

And  nothing  happened  for  a  while;  the  heat 
Grew  in  the  stuffy  room,  the  sunlight  slid, 
Flies  buzzed  about  and  jostled  at  the  meat, 
The  knife-blade  clicked  upon  the  manhole  lid : 

And  one  man  said,  "She  takes  a  hell  of  time 
Bringing  the  blaster,"  and  another  snorted; 
One,  between  pipe-puffs,  hummed  a  smutty  rhyme, 
One,  who  was  weaving,  thudded  with  his  sword. 

It  was  as  though  the  ship  were  in  a  dream, 
Caught  in  a  magic  ocean,  calm  like  death, 
Tranced,  till  a  presence  should  arise  and  gleam, 
Making  the  waters  conscious  with  her  breath 

It  was  so  drowsy  that  the  river's  cries, 
Roaring  aloud  their  ever-changing  tune, 

[4S81 


THE  RIVER 

Came  to  those  sailors  like  a  drone  of  flies, 
Filling  with  sleep  the  summer  afternoon. 

So  that  they  slept,  or,  if  they  spoke,  it  was 
Only  to  worry  lest  the  tug  should  come: 
Such  power  upon  the  body  labour  has 
That  prison  seemed  a  blessed  rest  to  some, 

Till  one  man  leaning  at  the  port-hole,  stared, 
Checking  his  yawning  at  the  widest  stretch, 
Then  blinked  and  swallowed,  while  he  muttered,  scared, 
"That  blasting-cotton  takes  an  age  to  fetch." 

Then  swiftly  passing  from  the  port  he  went 
Up  and  then  down  the  fo'c'sle  till  he  stayed, 
Fixed  at  the  port-hole  with  his  eyes  intent, 
Round-eyed  and  white,  as  if  he  were  afraid, 

And  muttered  as  he  stared,  "My  God!  she  is. 
She's  deeper  than  she  was,  she's  settling  down, 
That  palm-tree  top  was  steady  against  this, 
And  now  I  see  the  quay  below  the  town. 

"Look  here  at  her.    She's  sinking  in  her  tracks. 
She's  going  down  by  inches  as  she  stands; 
The  water's  darker  and  it  stinks  like  flax, 
Her  going  down  is  churning  up  the  sands." 

And  instantly  a  panic  took  the  crew, 
Even  the  digger  blenched;  his  knife-blade's  haste 
Cutting  the  solder  witnessed  that  he  knew 
Time  on  the  brink  with  not  a  breath  to  waste. 

[4S9l 


SONNETS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

While  far  away  the  tugboat  at  the  quay 
Under  her  drooping  pennon  waited  still 
For  that  explosive  which  would  set  them  free, 
Free,  with  the  world  a  servant  to  their  will. 

Then  from  a  boat  beside  them  came  a  blare, 
Urging  that  tugboat  to  be  quick;  and  men 
Shouted  to  stir  her  from  her  waiting  there, 
"Hurry  the  blast,  and  get  us  out  of  pen. 

"She's  going  down.    She's  going  down,  man!    Quick!" 
The  tugboat  did  not  stir,  no  answer  came; 
They  saw  her  tongue-like  pennon  idly  lick 
Clear  for  an  instant,  lettered  with  her  name. 

Then  droop  again.    The  engine  had  not  come, 
The  blast  had  not  arrived.    The  prisoned  hands 
Saw  her  still  waiting  though  their  time  had  come, 
Their  ship  was  going  down  among  the  sands, 

Going  so  swiftly  now,  that  they  could  see 
The  banks  arising  as  she  made  her  bed; 
Full  of  sick  sound  she  settled  deathward,  she 
Gurgled  and  shook,  the  digger  picked  the  lead. 

And,  as  she  paused  to  take  a  final  plunge, 
Prone  like  a  half-tide  rock,  the  men  on  deck 
Jumped  to  their  boats  and  left,  ere  like  a  sponge 
The  river's  rotten  heart  absorbed  the  wreck; 

And  on  the  perilous  instant  ere  Time  struck 
The  digger's  work  was  done,  the  lead  was  cleared, 
[46o] 


THE  RIVER 

He  cast  the  manhole  up;  below  it  muck 
Floated,  the  hold  was  full,  the  water  leered. 

All  of  his  labour  had  but  made  a  hole 
By  which  to  leap  to  death;  he  saw  black  dust 
Float  on  the  bubbles  of  that  brimming  bowl, 
He  drew  a  breath  and  took  his  life  in  trust, 

And  plunged  head  foremost  into  that  black  pit, 
Where  floating  cargo  bumped  against  the  beams. 
He  groped  a  choking  passage  blind  with  grit, 
The  roaring  in  his  ears  was  shot  with  screams. 

So,  with  a  bursting  heart  and  roaring  ears 
He  floundered  in  that  sunk  ship's  inky  womb, 
Drowned  in  deep  water  for  what  seemed  like  years, 
Buried  alive  and  groping  through  the  tomb, 

Till  suddenly  the  beams  against  his  back 
Gave,  and  the  water  on  his  eyes  was  bright; 
He  shot  up  through  a  hatchway  foul  with  wrack 
Into  clean  air  and  life  and  dazzling  light, 

And  striking  out,  he  saw  the  fo'c'sle  gone, 
Vanished,  below  the  water,  and  the  mast 
Standing  columnar  from  the  sea;  it  shone 
Proud,  with  its  colours  flying  to  the  last. 

And  all  about,  a  many-wrinkled  tide 
Smoothed  and  erased  its  eddies,  wandering  chilled, 
Like  glutted  purpose,  trying  to  decide 
If  its  achievement  had  been  what  it  willed. 
[461] 


SONNETS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

And  men  in  boats  were  there;  they  helped  him  in. 
He  gulped  for  breath  and  watched  that  patch  of  smooth, 
Shaped  like  the  vessel,  wrinkle  into  grin, 
Furrow  to  waves  and  bare  a  yellow  tooth. 

Then  the  masts  leaned  until  the  shroud-screws  gave. 
All  disappeared — her  masts,  her  colours,  all. 
He  saw  the  yardarms  tilting  to  the  grave; 
He  heard  the  siren  of  a  tugboat  call, 

And  saw  her  speeding,  foaming  at  the  bow, 
Bringing  the  blast-charge  that  had  come  too  late. 
He  heard  one  shout,  "It  isn't  wanted  now." 
Time's  minute-hand  had  been  the  hand  of  Fate. 

Then  the  boats  turned;  they  brought  him  to  the  shore. 
Men  crowded  round  him,  touched  him,  and  were  kind; 
The  Mate  walked  with  him,  silent,  to  the  store. 
He  said,  "We've  left  the  best  of  us  behind." 

Then,  as  he  wrung  his  sodden  clothes,  the  Mate 
Gave  him  a  drink  of  rum,  and  talked  awhile 
Of  men  and  ships  and  unexpected  Fate; 
And  darkness  came  and  cloaked  the  river's  guile, 

So  that  its  huddled  hurry  was  not  seen, 
Only  made  louder,  till  the  full  moon  climbed 
Over  the  forest,  floated,  and  was  queen. 
Within  the  town  a  temple-belfry  chimed. 

Then,  upon  silent  pads,  a  tiger  crept 
Down  to  the  river-brink,  and  crouching  there 
Watched  it  intently,  till  you  thought  he  slept 
But  for  his  ghastly  eye  and  stiffened  hair. 

[462] 


WATCHING  BY  A  SICK  BED 

Then,  trembling  at  a  lust  more  fell  than  his, 
He  roared  and  bounded  back  to  coverts  lone, 
Where,  among  moonlit  beauty,  slaughter  is, 
Filling  the  marvellous  night  with  myriad  groan. 

WATCHING  BY  A  SICK-BED 

I  heard  the  wind  all  day, 
And  what  it  was  trying  to  say. 
I  heard  the  wind  all  night 
Rave  as  it  ran  to  fight; 
After  the  wind  the  rain. 
And  then  the  wind  again 
Running  across  the  hill 
As  it  runs  still. 

And  all  day  long  the  sea 
Would  not  let  the  land  be, 
But  all  night  heaped  her  sand 
On  to  the  land; 
I  saw  her  glimmer  white 
All  through  the  night, 
Tossing  the  horrid  hair 
Still  tossing  there. 

And  all  day  long  the  stone 
Felt  how  the  wind  was  blown; 
And  all  night  long  the  rock 
Stood  the  sea's  shock; 
While,  from  the  window,  I 
Looked  out,  and  wondered  why, 
Why  at  such  length 
Such  force  should  fight  such  strength. 
[463] 


The  River  was  first  published  in  the  Century  Magazine;  The 
Wanderer  in  Harper  s  Magazine,  Watching  by  a  Sick-bed  and 
August,  1914,  in  Harper's  Weekly.  I  thank  the  editors  of  these 
periodicals  for  permission  to  reprint  them  here. 

JOHN  MASEFIELD. 


LOLLINGDON  DOWNS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


LOLLINGDON  DOWNS 

I 

So  I  have  known  this  life, 
These  beads  of  coloured  days, 
This  self  the  string. 
What  is  this  thing? 

Not  beauty;  no;  not  greed, 
O,  not  indeed; 
Not  all,  though  much; 
Its  colour  is  not  such. 

It  has  no  eyes  to  see, 
It  has  no  ears, 
It  is  a  red  hour's  war 
Followed  by  tears. 

It  is  an  hour  of  time, 

An  hour  of  road, 

Flesh  is  its  goad, 

Yet,  in  the  sorrowing  lands, 

Women  and  men  take  hands. 

0  earth,  give  us  the  corn, 
Come  rain,  come  sun, 
We  men  who  have  been  born 
Have  tasks  undone. 
Out  of  this  earth 
Comes  the  thing  birth, 
The  thing  unguessed,  unwon. 
[467] 


LOLLINGDON  DOWNS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


n 

O  wretched  man,  that,  for  a  little  mile 
Crawls  beneath  heaven  for  his  brother's  blood, 
Whose  days  the  planets  number  with  their  style, 
To  whom  all  earth  is  slave,  all  living,  food; 

O  withering  man,  within  whose  folded  shell 
Lies  yet  the  seed,  the  spirit's  quickening  corn, 
That  Time  and  Sun  will  change  out  of  the  cell 
Into  green  meadows,  in  the  world  unborn; 

If  Beauty  be  a  dream,  do  but  resolve 
And  fire  shall  come,  that  in  the  stubborn  clay 
Works  to  make  perfect  till  the  rocks  dissolve, 
The  barriers  burst  and  Beauty  takes  her  way, 

Beauty  herself,  within  whose  blossoming  Spring 
Even  wretched  man  shall  clap  his  hands  and  sing. 

Ill 

Out  of  the  special  cell's  most  special  sense 

Came  the  suggestion  when  the  light  was  sweet; 

All  skill,  all  beauty,  all  magnificence 
Are  hints  so  caught,  man's  glimpse  of  the  complete. 

And,  though  the  body  rots,  that  sense  survives, 

Being  of  life's  own  essence  it  endures 
(Fruit  of  the  spirit's  tillage  in  men's  lives) 

Round  all  this  ghost  that  wandering  flesh  immures. 
[468] 


LOLLINGDON  DOWNS 

That  is  our  friend,  who,  when  the  iron  brain 
Assails,  or  the  earth  clogs,  or  the  sun  hides, 

Is  the  good  God  to  whom  none  calls  in  vain, 
Man's  Achieved  Good,  which,  being  Life,  abides, 

The  man-made  God,  that  man  in  happy  breath 
Makes  in  despite  of  Time  and  dusty  death. 

IV 

You  are  the  link  which  binds  us  each  to  each. 
Passion,  or  too  much  thought,  alone  can  end 
Beauty,  the  ghost,  the  spirit's  common  speech, 
Which  man's  red  longing  left  us  for  our  friend. 

Even  in  the  blinding  war  I  have  known  this, 
That  flesh  is  but  the  carrier  of  a  ghost 
Who,  through  his  longing,  touches  that  which  is 
Even  as  the  sailor  knows  the  foreign  coast. 

So,  by  the  bedside  of  the  dying  black 
I  felt  our  uncouth  souls  subtly  made  one, 
Forgiven,  the  meanness  of  each  other's  lack, 
Forgiven,  the  petty  tale  of  ill  things  done. 

We  were  but  Man,  who  for  a  tale  of  days 
Seeks  the  one  city  by  a  million  ways. 


I  could  not  sleep  for  thinking  of  the  sky, 
The  unending  sky,  with  all  its  million  suns 
Which  turn  their  planets  everlastingly 
In  nothing,  where  the  fire-haired  comet  runs. 
[469! 


LOLLINGDON  DOWNS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

If  I  could  sail  that  nothing,  I  should  cross 
Silence  and  emptiness  with  dark  stars  passing, 
Then,  in  the  darkness,  see  a  point  of  gloss 
Bum  to  a  glow,  and  glare,  and  keep  amassing, 

And  rage  into  a  sun  with  wandering  planets 
And  drop  behind,  and  then,  as  I  proceed, 
See  his  last  light  upon  his  last  moon's  granites 
Die  to  a  dark  that  would  be  night  indeed. 

Night  where  my  soul  might  sail  a  million  years 
In  nothing,  not  even  Death,  not  even  tears. 

VI 

How  did  the  nothing  come,  how  did  these  fires, 
These  million-leagues  of  fires,  first  toss  their  hair, 
Licking  the  moons  from  heaven  in  their  ires 
Flinging  them  forth  for  them  to  wander  there? 

What  was  the  Mind  ?    Was  it  a  mind  which  thought  ? 
Or  chance?    Or  law?    Or  conscious  law?    Or  Power? 
Or  a  vast  balance  by  vast  clashes  wrought? 
Or  Time  at  trial  with  Matter  for  an  hour? 

Or  is  it  all  a  body  where  the  cells 
Are  living  things  supporting  something  strange 
Whose  mighty  heart  the  singing  planet  swells 
As  it  shoulders  nothing  in  unending  change? 

Is  this  green  earth  of  many-peopled  pain 
Part  of  a  life,  a  cell  within  a  brain? 
[470] 


LOLLINGDON  DOWNS 


VII 

It  may  be  so;  but  let  the  unknown  be. 
We,  on  this  earth,  are  servants  of  the  sun. 
Out  of  the  sun  comes  all  the  quick  in  me, 
His  golden  touch  is  life  to  everyone. 

His  power  it  is  that  makes  us  spin  through  space, 
His  youth  is  April  and  his  manhood  bread, 
Beauty  is  but  a  looking  on  his  face, 
He  clears  the  mind,  he  makes  the  roses  red. 

What  he  may  be,  who  knows?    But  we  are  his, 
We  roll  through  nothing  round  him,  year  by  year, 
The  withering  leaves  upon  a  tree  which  is 
Each  with  his  greed,  his  little  power,  his  fear. 

What  we  may  be,  who  knows?    But  everyone 
Is  dust  on  dust  a  servant  of  the  sun. 

VIII 

The  Kings  go  by  with  jewelled  crowns, 

Their  horses  gleam,  their  banners  shake,  their  spears  are  many. 

The  sack  of  many-peopled  towns 

Is  all  their  dream: 

The  way  they  take 

Leaves  but  a  ruin  in  the  break, 

And,  in  the  furrow  that  the  ploughmen  make, 

A  stampless  penny;  a  tale,  a  dream. 

The  merchants  reckon  up  their  gold, 

Their  letters  come,  their  ships  arrive,  their  freights  are  glories: 

[47il 


LOLLINGDON  DOWNS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

The  profits  of  their  treasures  sold 

They  tell  and  sum; 

Their  foremen  drive 

The  servants  starved  to  half-alive 

Whose  labours  do  not  make  the  earth  a  hive 

Of  stinking  stories,  a  tale,  a  dream. 

The  priests  are  singing  in  their  stalls, 

Their  singing  lifts,  their  incense  burns,  their  praying  clamours; 

Yet  God  is  as  the  sparrow  falls; 

The  ivy  drifts, 

The  votive  urns 

Are  all  left  void  when  Fortune  turns, 

The  god  is  but  a  marble  for  the  kerns 

To  break  with  hammers;  a  tale,  a  dream. 

O  Beauty,  let  me  know  again 

The  green  earth  cold,  the  April  rain,  the  quiet  waters  figuring 

sky,. 
The  one  star  risen. 

So  shall  I  pass  into  the  feast 

Not  touched  by  King,  merchant  or  priest, 

Know  the  red  spirit  of  the  beast, 

Be  the  green  grain; 

Escape  from  prison. 

IX 

What  is  this  life  which  uses  living  cells 
It  knows  not  how  nor  why,  for  no  known  end, 
This  soul  of  man  upon  whose  fragile  shells 
Of  blood  and  brain  his  very  powers  depend? 

[472! 


LOLLINGDON  DOWNS 

Pour  out  its  little  blood  or  touch  its  brain 
The  thing  is  helpless,  gone,  no  longer  known, 
The  carrion  cells  are  never  man  again, 
No  hand  relights  the  little  candle  blown. 
It  comes  not  from  Without,  but  from  the  sperm 
Fed  in  the  womb,  it  is  a  man-made  thing, 
That  takes  from  man  its  power  to  live  a  term 
Served  by  live  cells  of  which  it  is  the  King. 
Can  it  be  blood  and  brain?    It  is  most  great, 
Through  blood  and  brain  alone  it  wrestles  Fate. 

X 

Can  it  be  blood  and  brain,  this  transient  force 
Which,  by  an  impulse,  seizes  flesh  and  grows 
To  man,  the  thing  less  splendid  than  the  horse, 
More  blind  than  owls,  less  lovely  than  the  rose? 
O,  by  a  power  unknown  it  works  the  cells 
Of  blood  and  brain;  it  has  the  power  to  see 
Beyond  the  apparent  thing  the  something  else 
Which  it  inspires  dust  to  bring  to  be. 
O,  blood  and  brain  are  its  imperfect  tools, 
Easily  wrecked,  soon  worn,  slow  to  attain, 
Only  by  years  of  toil  the  master  rules 
To  lovely  ends,  those  servants  blood  and  brain. 
And  Death,  a  touch,  a  germ,  has  still  the  force 
To  make  him  ev'n  as  the  rose,  the  owl,  the  horse. 

XI 

Not  only  blood  and  brain  its  servants  are, 
There  is  a  finer  power  that  needs  no  slaves 
1 4731 


LOLLINGDON  DOWNS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Whose  lovely  service  distance  cannot  bar 
Nor  the  green  sea  with  all  her  hell  of  waves, 
Nor  snowy  mountains,  nor  the  desert  sand, 
Nor  heat,  nor  storm,  it  bends  to  no  control, 
It  is  a  stretching  of  the  spirit's  hand 
To  touch  the  brother's  or  the  sister's  soul; 
So  that  from  darkness  in  the  narrow  room 
I  can  step  forth  and  be  about  her  heart, 
Needing  no  star,  no  lantern  in  the  gloom, 
No  word  from  her,  no  pointing  on  the  chart, 
Only  red  knowledge  of  a  window  flung 
Wide  to  the  night,  and  calling  without  tongue. 

XII 

Drop  me  the  seed,  that  I,  even  in  my  brain 
May  be  its  nourishing  earth.    No  mortal  knows 
From  what  immortal  granary  comes  the  grain, 
Nor  how  the  earth  conspires  to  make  the  rose; 

But  from  the  dust  and  from  the  wetted  mud 
Comes  help,  given  or  taken;  so  with  me 
Deep  in  my  brain  the  essence  of  my  blood 
Shall  give  it  stature  until  Beauty  be. 

It  will  look  down,  even  as  the  burning  flower 
Smiles  upon  June,  long  after  I  am  gone. 
Dust-footed  Time  will  never  tell  its  hour, 
Through  dusty  Time  its  rose  will  draw  men  on, 

Through  dusty  Time  its  beauty  shall  make  plain 
Man,  and,  Without,  a  spirit  scattering  grain. 
U74I 


LOLLINGDON  DOWNS 


XIII 

Ah,  but  Without  there  is  no  spirit  scattering; 

Nothing  but  Life,  most  fertile  but  unwise, 

Passing  through  change  in  the  sun's  heat  and  cloud's  watering, 

Pregnant  with  self,  unlit  by  inner  eyes. 

There  is  no  Sower,  nor  seed  for  any  tillage; 
Nothing  but  the  grey  brain's  pash,  and  the  tense  will 
And  that  poor  fool  of  the  Being's  little  village 
Feeling  for  the  truth  in  the  little  veins  that  thrill. 

There  is  no  Sowing,  but  digging,  year  by  year, 

In  a  hill's  heart,  now  one  way,  now  another, 

Till  the  rock  breaks  and  the  valley  is  made  clear 

And  the  poor  Fool  stands,  and  knows  the  sun  for  his  brother 

And  the  Soul  shakes  wings  like  a  bird  escaped  from  cage 
And  the  tribe  moves  on  to  camp  in  its  heritage. 

XIV 

You  are  too  beautiful  for  mortal  eyes, 
You  the  divine  unapprehended  soul; 
The  red  worm  in  the  marrow  of  the  wise 
Stirs  as  you  pass,  but  never  sees  you  whole. 

Even  as  the  watcher  in  the  midnight  tower 
Knows  from  a  change  in  heaven  an  unseen  star, 
So  from  your  beauty,  so  from  the  summer  flower. 
So  from  the  light,  one  guesses  what  you  are. 

[4751 


LOLLINGDON  DOWNS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

So  in  the  darkness  does  the  traveller  come 
To  some  lit  chink,  through  which  he  cannot  see, 
More  than  a  light,  nor  hear,  more  than  a  hum, 
Of  the  great  hall  where  Kings  in  council  be. 

So,  in  the  grave,  the  red  and  mouthless  worm 
Knows  of  the  soul  that  held  his  body  firm. 

XV 

Is  it  a  sea  on  which  the  souls  embark 
Out  of  the  body,  as  men  put  to  sea  ? 
Or  do  we  come  like  candles  in  the  dark 
In  the  rooms  in  cities  in  eternity? 

Is  it  a  darkness  that  our  powers  can  light? 
Is  this,  our  little  lantern  of  man's  love, 
A  help  to  find  friends  wandering  in  the  night 
In  the  unknown  country  with  no  star  above? 

Or  is  it  sleep,  unknowing,  outlasting  clocks 
That  outlast  men,  that,  though  the  cockcrow  ring, 
Is  but  one  peace,  of  the  substance  of  the  rocks, 
Is  but  one  space  in  the  now  unquickened  thing, 

Is  but  one  joy,  that,  though  the  million  tire, 
Is  one,  always  the  same,  one  life,  one  fire? 


l47«] 


THE  BLACKSMITH 

XVI 

The  blacksmith  in  his  sparky  forge 
Beat  on  the  white-hot  softness  there; 
Even  as  he  beat  he  sang  an  air 
To  keep  the  sparks  out  of  his  gorge. 

So  many  shoes  the  blacksmith  beat, 
So  many  shares  and  links  for  traces, 
So  many  builders'  struts  and  braces, 
Such  tackling  for  the  chain-fore-sheet, 

That,  in  his  pride,  big  words  he  spake; 
"I  am  the  master  of  my  trade, 
What  iron  is  good  for  I  have  made, 
I  make  what  is  in  iron  to  make." 

Daily  he  sang  thus  by  his  fire, 

Till  one  day,  as  he  poised  his  stroke 

Above  his  bar,  the  iron  spoke, 

"You  boaster,  drop  your  hammer,  liar.' 

The  hammer  dropped  out  of  his  hand, 
The  iron  rose,  it  gathered  shape, 
It  took  the  blacksmith  by  the  nape, 
It  pressed  him  to  the  furnace,  and 

Heaped  fire  upon  him  till  his  form 
Was  molten,  flinging  sparks  aloft, 
Until  his  bones  were  melted  soft, 
His  hairs  crisped  in  a  fiery  storm. 
[4771 


LOLLINGDON  DOWNS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

The  iron  drew  him  from  the  blaze 
To  place  him  on  the  anvil,  then 
It  beat  him  from  the  shape  of  men, 
Like  drugs  the  apothecary  brays; 

Beat  him  to  ploughing-coulters,  beat 
Body  and  blood  to  links  of  chain, 
With  endless  hammerings  of  pain, 
Unending  torment  of  white  heat; 

And  did  not  stop  the  work,  but  still 
Beat  on  him  while  the  furnace  roared; 
The  blacksmith  suffered  and  implored, 
With  iron  bonds  upon  his  will. 

And,  though  he  could  not  die  nor  shrink, 
He  felt  his  being  beat  by  force 
To  horse  shoes  stamped  on  by  the  horse, 
And  into  troughs  whence  cattle  drink. 

He  felt  his  blood,  his  dear  delight, 

Beat  into  shares,  he  felt  it  rive 

The  green  earth  red;  he  was  alive, 

Dragged  through  the  earth  by  horses'  might. 

He  felt  his  brain,  that  once  had  planned 
His  daily  life,  changed  to  a  chain 
Which  curbed  a  sail  or  dragged  a  wain, 
Or  hoisted  ship-loads  to  the  land. 

He  felt  his  heart,  that  once  had  thrilled 
With  love  of  wife  and  little  ones, 
Cut  out  and  mingled  with  his  bones 
To  pin  the  bricks  where  men  rebuilt. 


THE  BLACKSMITH 

He  felt  his  very  self  impelled 
To  common  uses,  till  he  cried, 
"There's  more  within  me  than  is  tried, 
More  than  you  ever  think  to  weld. 

"For  all  my  pain  I  am  only  used 
To  make  the  props  for  daily  labour; 
I  burn,  I  am  beaten  like  a  tabor 
To  make  men  tools;  I  am  abused. 

"  Deep  in  the  white  heat  where  I  gasp 
I  see  the  unmastered  finer  powers, 
Iron  by  cunning  wrought  to  flowers, 
File-worked,  not  tortured  by  the  rasp. 

"Deep  in  this  fire-tortured  mind 
Thought  bends  the  bar  in  subtler  ways, 
It  glows  into  the  mass,  its  rays 
Purge,  till  the  iron  is  refined. 

"Then,  as  the  full  moon  draws  the  tide 
Out  of  the  vague  uncaptained  sea, 
Some  moon  power  there  ought  to  be 
To  work  on  ore;  it  should  be  tried. 

"By  this  fierce  fire  in  which  I  ache 
I  see  new  fires  not  yet  begun, 
A  blacksmith  smithying  with  the  sun, 
At  unmade  things  man  ought  to  make. 

"Life  is  not  fire  and  blows,  but  thought, 
Attention  kindling  into  joy, 
Those  who  make  nothing  new  destroy, 
O  me,  what  evil  I  have  wrought. 
[4791 


LOLLINGDON  DOWNS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

"O  me,"  and  as  he  moaned  he  saw 
His  iron  master  shake,  he  felt 
No  blow,  nor  did  the  fire  melt 
His  flesh,  he  was  released  from  law. 

He  sat  upon  the  anvil  top 
Dazed,  as  the  iron  was  dazed,  he  took 
Strength,  seeing  that  the  iron  shook, 
He  said,  "This  cruel  time  must  stop." 

He  seized  the  iron  and  held  him  fast 
With  pincers,  in  the  midmost  blaze, 
A  million  sparks  went  million  ways, 
The  cowhorn  handle  plied  the  blast. 

"Burn,  then,"  he  cried;  the  fire  was  white, 
The  iron  was  whiter  than  the  fire. 
The  fireblast  made  the  embers  twire, 
The  blacksmith's  arm  began  to  smite. 

First  vengeance  for  old  pain,  and  then 
Beginning  hope  of  better  things, 
Then  swordblades  for  the  sides  of  Kings 
And  corselets  for  the  breasts  of  men. 

And  crowns  and  such  like  joys  and  gems. 
And  stars  of  honour  for  the  pure, 
Jewels  of  honour  to  endure, 
Beautiful  women's  diadems. 

And  coulters,  sevenfold-twinned,  to  rend, 
And  girders  to  uphold  the  tower, 
Harness  for  unimagined  power, 
New  ships  to  make  the  billows  bend, 
[480] 


THE  FRONTIER 

And  stores  of  fire-compelling  things 
By  which  men  dominate  and  pierce 
The  iron-imprisoned  universe 
Where  angels  lie  with  banded  wings. 


THE  FRONTIER 
XVII 

COTTA 


PERSONS 


Lucius 
THEIR  CHIEF 


COTTA 

Would  God  the  route  would  come  for  home. 
My  God,  this  place,  day  after  day, 
A  month  of  heavy  march  from  Rome. 
This  camp,  the  troopers'  huts  of  clay, 
The  horses  tugging  at  their  pins, 
The  roaring  brook  and  then  the  whins 
And  nothing  new  to  do  or  say. 

Lucius 
They  say  the  tribes  are  up. 

COTTA 

Who  knows? 

[481] 


-LOLLINGDON  DOWNS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Lucius 
Our  scouts  say  that  they  saw  their  fires. 

COTTA 

Well,  if  we  fight  it's  only  blows 
And  bogging  horses  in  the  mires. 

Lucius 

Their  raiders  crossed  the  line  last  night, 
Eastward  from  this,  to  raid  the  stud, 
They  stole  our  old  chief's  stallion,  Kite. 
He's  in  pursuit. 

COTTA 
That  looks  like  blood. 

Lucius 

Well,  better  that  than  dicing  here 
Beside  this  everlasting  stream. 

COTTA 

My  God,  I  was  in  Rome  last  year, 
Under  the  sun,  it  seems  a  dream. 

Lucius 

Things  are  not  going  well  in  Rome, 
This  frontier  war  is  wasting  men 
Like  water,  and  the  Tartars  come 
In  hordes. 


THE  FRONTIER 

COTTA 
We  beat  them  back  again. 

Lucius 

So  far  we  have,  and  yet  I  feel 
The  Empire  is  too  wide  a  bow 
For  one  land's  strength. 

COTTA 
The  stuff's  good  steel. 

Lucius 

Too  great  a  strain  may  snap  it  though. 
If  we  were  ordered  home.  .  .  . 

COTTA 
Good  Lord  .  .  . 

Lucius 

If  ...  Then  our  friends,  the  tribesmen  there 
Would  have  glad  days. 

COTTA 

This  town  would  flare 
To  warm  old  Foxfoot  and  his  horde. 

Lucius 

We  have  not  been  forethoughtful  here, 
Pressing  the  men  to  fill  the  ranks 
Centurions  sweep  the  province  clear. 

COTTA 
Rightly. 

[483] 


LOLLINGDON  DOWNS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Lucius 
Perhaps. 

COTTA 
We  get  no  thanks. 

Lucius 

We  strip  the  men  for  troops  abroad 
And  leave  the  women  and  the  slaves 
For  merchants  and  their  kind.    The  graves 
Of  half  each  province  line  the  road. 
These  people  could  not  stand  a  day 
Against  the  tribes,  with  us  away. 

COTTA 
Rightly. 

Lucius 
Perhaps. 

COTTA 
Here  comes  the  Chief. 

Lucius 
Sir,  did  your  riders  catch  the  thief? 

CHIEF 

No,  he  got  clear  and  keeps  the  horse 
But  bad  news  always  comes  with  worse. 
The  frontier's  fallen,  we're  recalled, 
Our  army's  broken,  Rome's  appalled, 


THE  FRONTIER 

My  God,  the  whole  world's  in  a  blaze. 
So  now,  we've  done  with  idle  days 
Fooling  on  frontiers.     Boot  and  start. 
It  gives  a  strange  feel  in  the  heart 
To  think  that  this,  that  Rome  has  made, 
Is  done  with.    Yes,  the  stock's  decayed. 
We  march  at  once.    You  mark  my  words, 
We're  done,  we're  crumbled  into  sherds, 
We  shall  not  see  this  place  again 
When  once  we  go. 

Lucius 
Do  none  remain? 

CHIEF 

No,  none,  all  march.    Here  ends  the  play. 
March,  and  burn  camp.    The  order's  gone, 
Your  men  have  sent  your  baggage  on. 

COTTA 
My  God,  hark  how  the  trumpets  bray. 

CHIEF 

They  do.    You  see  the  end  of  things. 
The  power  of  a  thousand  kings 
Helped  us  to  this,  and  now  the  power 
Is  so  much  hay  that  was  a  flower. 

Lucius 

We  have  been  very  great  and  strong. 

[485! 


LOLLINGDON  DOWNS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

CHIEF 
That's  over  now. 

Lucius 

It  will  be  long 
Before  the  world  will  see  our  like. 

CHIEF 

We've  kept  these  thieves  beyond  the  dyke 
A  good  long  time,  here  on  the  Wall. 

Lucius 

Colonel,  we  ought  to  sound  a  call 
To  mark  the  end  of  this. 

CHIEF 

We  ought. 

Look.    There's  the  hill  top  where  we  fought 
Old  Foxfoot.    Look,  there  in  the  whin. 
Old  ruffian  knave.    Come  on.    Fall  in. 

XVIII 

Night  is  on  the  downland,  on  the  lonely  moorland, 
On  the  hills  where  the  wind  goes  over  sheep-bitten  turf, 
Where  the  bent  grass  beats  upon  the  unploughed  poorland 
And  the  pine  woods  roar  like  the  surf. 

Here  the  Roman  lived  on  the  wind-barren  lonely, 
Dark  now  and  haunted  by  the  moorland  fowl; 
None  comes  here  now  but  the  peewit  only, 
And  moth-like  death  in  the  owl. 

[486] 


MIDNIGHT 

Beauty  was  here,  on  this  beetle-droning  downland; 
The  thought  of  a  Caesar  in  the  purple  came 
From  the  palace  by  the  Tiber  in  the  Roman  townland 
To  this  wind-swept  hill  with  no  name. 

Lonely  Beauty  came  here  and  was  here  in  sadness, 
Brave  as  a  thought  on  the  frontier  of  the  mind, 
In  the  camp  of  the  wild  upon  the  march  of  madness, 
The  bright-eyed  Queen  of  the  blind. 

Now  where  Beauty  was  are  the  wind-withered  gorses 
Moaning  like  old  men  in  the  hill-wind's  blast 
The  flying  sky  is  dark  with  running  horses 
And  the  night  is  full  of  the  past. 


MIDNIGHT 

XIX    - 

The  fox  came  up  by  Stringer's  Pound, 
He  smelt  the  south  west  warm  on  the  ground, 
From  west  to  east  a  feathery  smell 
Of  blood  on  the  wing-quills  tasting  well. 
A  buck's  hind  feet  thumped  on  the  sod, 
The  whip-like  grass  snake  went  to  clod, 
The  dog-fox  put  his  nose  in  the  air 
To  taste  what  food  was  wandering  there. 
Under  the  clover  down  the  hill 
A  hare  in  form  that  knew  his  will. 
Up  the  hill,  the  warren  awake 
And  the  badger  shewing  teeth  like  a  rake. 
[487! 


LOLLINGDON  DOWNS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Down  the  hill  the  two  twin  thorpes 
Where  the  crying  night  owl  waked  the  corpse, 
And  the  moon  on  the  stilly  windows  bright 
Instead  of  a  dead  man's  waking  light. 
The  cock  on  his  perch  that  shook  his  wing 
When  the  clock  struck  for  the  chimes  to  ring, 
A  duck  that  muttered,  a  rat  that  ran 
And  a  horse  that  stamped,  remembering  man. 

XX 

Up  on  the  downs  the  red-eyed  kestrels  hover 
Eyeing  the  grass. 

The  field  mouse  flits  like  a  shadow  into  cover 
As  their  shadows  pass. 

Men  are  burning  the  gorse  on  the  down's  shoulder, 
A  drift  of  smoke 

Glitters  with  fire  and  hangs,  and  the  skies  smoulder, 
And  the  lungs  choke. 

Once  the  tribe  did  thus  on  the  downs,  on  these  downs,  burning 
Men  in  the  frame, 

Crying  to  the  gods  of  the  downs  till  their  brains  were  turning 
And  the  gods  came. 

And  to-day  on  the  downs,  in  the  wind,  the  hawks,  the  grasses, 

In  blood  and  air, 

Something  passes  me  and  cries  as  it  passes, 

On  the  chalk  downland  bare. 


[488J 


MIDNIGHT 


XXI 

No  man  takes  the  farm, 
Nothing  grows  there, 
The  ivy's  arm 
Strangles  the  rose  there. 

Old  Farmer  Kyrle 
Farmed  there  the  last; 
He  beat  his  girl; 
(It's  seven  years  past). 

After  market  it  was 
He  beat  his  girl; 
He  liked  his  glass, 
Old  Farmer  Kyrle. 

Old  Kyrle's  son 
Said  to  his  father, 
"Now,  dad,  you  ha'  done, 
I'll  kill  you  rather. 

"Stop  beating  sister 
Or  by  God  I'll  kill  you." 
Kyrle  was  full  of  liquor. 
Old  Kyrle  said,  "Will  you?" 

Kyrle  took  his  cobb'd  stick 
And  beat  his  daughter. 
He  said,  "I'll  teach  my  chick 
As  a  father  oughter." 


LOLLINGDON  DOWNS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Young  Will,  the  son, 
Heard  his  sister  shriek, 
He  took  his  gun 
Quick  as  a  streak. 

He  said,  "Now,  dad, 
Stop,  once  for  all." 
He  was  a  good  lad, 
Good  at  kicking  the  ball. 

His  father  clubbed 
The  girl  on  the  head. 
Young  Will  upped 
And  shot  him  dead. 

"Now,  sister,*'  said  Will, 
"I've  a-killed  father, 
As  I  said  I'd  kill. 
O  my  love,  I'd  rather 

"A  kill  him  again 
Than  see  you  suffer. 

0  my  little  Jane, 

Kiss  goodbye  to  your  brother. 

1  won't  see  you  again, 
Nor  the  cows  homing, 
Nor  the  mice  in  the  grain, 
Nor  the  primrose  coming, 

Nor  the  fair,  nor  folk, 
Nor  the  summer  flowers 
Growing  on  the  wold 
Nor  aught  that's  ours. 
(49°1 


MIDNIGHT 

Not  Tib  the  cat, 
Not  Stub  the  mare, 
Nor  old  dog  Pat 
Never  anywhere. 

For  I'll  be  hung 
In  Gloucester  prison 
When  the  bell's  rung 
And  the  sun's  risen. 


They  hanged  Will 
As  Will  said, 
With  one  thrill 
They  choked  him  dead. 

Jane  walked  the  wold 
Like  a  grey  gander; 
All  grown  old 
She  would  wander. 

She  died  soon. 
At  high  tide 
At  full  moon 
Jane  died. 

The  brook  chatters 
As  at  first, 
The  farm  it  waters 
Is  accurst; 


LOLLINGDON  DOWNS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

No  man  takes  it, 
Nothing  grows  there, 
Blood  straiks  it, 
A  ghost  goes  there. 

XXII 

A  hundred  years  ago,  they  quarried  for  the  stone  here; 
The  carts  came  through  the  wood  by  the  track  still  plain; 
The  drills  shew  in  the  rock  where  the  blasts  were  blown  here, 
They  shew  up  dark  after  rain. 

Then  the  last  cart  of  stone  went  away  through  the  wood, 

To  build  the  great  house  for  some  April  of  a  woman, 

Till  her  beauty  stood  in  stone,  as  her  man's  thought  made  it 

good, 
And  the  dumb  rock  was  made  human. 

The  house  still  stands,  but  the  April  of  its  glory 
Is  gone,  long  since,  with  the  beauty  that  has  gone, 
She  wandered  away  west,  it  is  an  old  sad  story, 
It  is  best  not  talked  upon. 

And  the  man  has  gone,  too,  but  the  quarry  that  he  made, 
Whenever  April  comes  as  it  came  in  old  time, 
Is  a  dear  delight  to  the  man  who  loves  a  maid, 
For  the  primrose  comes  from  the  lime.  .  .  . 

And  the  blackbird  builds  below  the  catkin  shaking 

And  the  sweet  white  violets  are  beauty  in  the  blood, 

And  daffodils  are  there,  and  the  blackthorn  blossom  breaking 

Is  a  wild  white  beauty  in  bud. 

(49*1 


MIDNIGHT 


XXIII 

Here  the  legion  halted,  here  the  ranks  were  broken, 

And  the  men  fell  out  to  gather  wood, 

And  the  green  wood  smoked,  and  bitter  words  were  spoken, 

And  the  trumpets  called  to  food. 

And  the  sentry  on  the  rampart  saw  the  distance  dying 
In  the  smoke  of  distance  blue  and  far, 
And  heard  the  curlew  calling  and  the  owl  replying 
As  the  night  came  cold  with  one  star; 

And  thought  of  home  beyond,  over  moorland,  over  marshes, 
Over  hills,  over  the  sea,  across  the  plains,  across  the  pass, 
By  a  bright  sea  trodden  by  the  ships  of  Tarshis, 
The  farm,  with  cicadae  in  the  grass. 

And  thought,  as  I,  "Perhaps  I  may  be  done  with  living 
To-morrow,  when  we  fight.     I  shall  see  those  souls  no  more. 
O,  beloved  souls,  be  beloved  in  forgiving 
The  deeds  and  the  words  that  make  me  sore." 

XXIV 

We  danced  away  care  till  the  fiddler's  eyes  blinked, 
And  at  supper,  at  midnight,  our  wine-glasses  chinked, 
Then  we  danced  till  the  roses  that  hung  round  the  wall 
Were  broken  red  petals  that  did  rise  and  did  fall 
To  the  ever-turning  couples  of  the  bright-eyed  and  gay, 
Singing  in  the  midnight  to  dance  care  away. 

[4931 


LOLLINGDON  DOWNS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Then  the  dancing  died  out  and  the  carriages  came, 

And  the  beauties  took  their  cloaks  and  the  men  did  the  same, 

And  the  wheels  crunched  the  gravel  and  the  lights  were  turned 

down, 
And  the  tired  beauties  dozed  through  the  cold  drive  to  town. 

Nan  was  the  belle  and  she  married  her  beau, 

Who  drank,  and  then  beat  her,  and  she  died  long  ago, 

And  Mary,  her  sister,  is  married  and  gone 

To  a  tea  planter's  lodge,  in  the  plains,  in  Ceylon. 

And  Dorothy's  sons  have  been  killed  out  in  France, 

And  Mary  lost  her  man  in  the  August  advance, 

And  Em,  the  man  jilted,  and  she  lives  all  alone 

In  the  house  of  this  dance  which  seems  burnt  in  my  bone. 

Margaret  and  Susan  and  Marian  and  Phyllis 

With  red  lips  laughing  and  the  beauty  of  lilies 

And  the  grace  of  wild  swans  and  a  wonder  of  bright  hair, 

Dancing  among  roses  with  petals  in  the  air. 

All,  all  are  gone,  and  Hetty's  little  maid 
Is  so  like  her  mother  that  it  makes  me  afraid. 
And  Rosalind's  son,  whom  I  passed  in  the  street, 
Clinked  on  the  pavement  with  the  spurs  on  his  feet. 


[494) 


ROSAS 


ROSAS 

There  was  an  old  lord  in  the  Argentine, 
Named  Rosas,  of  the  oldest  blood  in  Spain; 
His  wife  was  the  proud  last  of  a  proud  line, 
She  ruled  his  house  for  him  and  farmed  his  plain: 
They  had  one  child,  a  tameless  boy  called  John, 
Who  was  a  little  lad  a  century  gone. 

This  little  boy,  the  Rosas'  only  child, 

Was  not  like  other  children  of  his  age, 

His  body  seemed  a  trap  to  something  wild 

That  bit  the  trap-bars  bloody  in  his  rage. 

He  had  mad  eyes  which  glittered  and  were  grim; 

Even  as  a  child  men  were  afraid  of  him. 

And  once,  when  old  Lord  Rosas  at  a  Fair 
Talked  with  his  friends,  this  little  boy  being  by, 
An  old  man  called  the  child  and  touched  his  hair, 
And  watched  the  wild  thing  trapping  in  his  eye, 
Then  bade  the  child  "Go  play,"  and  being  gone 
Wept  bitter  tears  in  sight  of  everyone. 

And  when  Lord  Rosas  asked  him,  why  he  cried, 
He  said  "Because  I  see,  round  that  child's  head, 
A  sign  of  evil  things  that  will  betide 
Through  him,  being  man.    There  is  a  blur  of  red, 
A  blur  of  blood,  a  devil,  at  his  side; 
I  see  his  future.    That  was  why  I  cried. 
[4971 


ROSAS 

I  am  an  old,  old  man  limping  to  death, 
And  many  a  wicked  thing  have  I  seen  done. 
Bloody  and  evil  as  the  Preacher  saith 
Are  ill  men's  dealings  underneath  the  sun. 
But  this  bright  child  is  fated  to  such  crime 
As  will  make  mark  a  bloody  smear  on  Time." 

So  he  went  weeping,  while  the  gossips  bade 
Lord  Rosas  not  to  heed  the  poor  old  loon. 
Lord  Rosas  died  soon  after  and  was  laid 
Deep  in  the  pit  where  all  lie  late  or  soon. 
Under  the  flagstone  in  the  chancel  dim 
Evil  and  happy  fate  were  one  to  him. 

After  his  death,  his  widow  ruled  the  son 

Some  few  short  years;  some  bitter  bouts  they  had; 

That  old  hot  proud  un-understanding  one 

Roused  night  and  day  the  devil  in  the  lad, 

She  with  her  plans,  and  he  with  all  his  dreams 

Of  the  great  world  washed  by  the  ocean  streams. 


It  was  the  custom  in  the  outland  plain, 
That  young  men,  nobly  born,  should  serve  awhile 
Under  some  merchant,  keeping  store  for  gain, 
So  to  learn  commerce,  and  by  service  vile, 
Sweeping  the  floors,  to  sense  (with  gritted  teeth) 
Man  and  this  world  of  his  from  underneath, 

And  seeing  life,  because  those  merchants'  stores 
Were  clubs  and  markets  used  by  everyone 
For  plots  and  bargains  and  the  test  of  ores. 
[4981 


ROSAS 

Senora  Rosas  ordered  that  her  son 
Should  like  his  father,  enter,  being  of  age, 
A  country  storehouse  as  the  merchant's  page. 

"I  do  as  father  did?"  he  answered,  "I? 
Sweep  out  a  cheater's  office  with  a  broom, 
And  peddle  sardines?    I  had  rather  die. 
While  there's  a  cow  to  brand  or  horse  to  groom 
I'll  be  a  man.    So  let  your  merchant  find 
Some  priest  or  eunuch  with  my  father's  mind." 

She  spoke  again.    He  said,  "I  will  not  go." 
"Then,"  she  replied,  "My  son,  you  shall  not  eat, 
Nor  drink,  until  you  do.    You  tell  me,  No. 
A  resty  calf  that  quarrels  with  the  teat 
Shall  starve,  for  me.    Men,  lock  this  braggart  lad 
Into  his  room."    They  did  as  they  were  bade. 

They  left  him  in  his  room  all  through  the  day, 
With  neither  food  nor  drink;    they  asked  him  thrice, 
"John,  here  is  dinner;  will  you  not  obey?" 
They  brought  him  raisin  biscuits  to  entice 
Him  to  obey.    His  friend  the  horse-herd  came. 
But  John  would  neither  answer  nor  be  tame. 

When  twilight  fell,  his  mother  asked  again, 
"John,  be  advised,  be  wise  and  do  my  will. 
Why  be  so  headstrong,  giving  me  such  pain? 
Are  you  not  hungry?    There  is  dinner  still. 
Say  you  will  go,  then  come  and  eat  with  me." 
"I  won't,"  he  said.    "Then  you  may  starve,"  said  she. 
[499] 


ROSAS 

So  when  the  night  was  dark,  the  mother  said, 
"Leave  him  to-night,  to-morrow  we  shall  find 
His  fal-lals  cured  and  I  shall  be  obeyed. 
No  cure  like  hunger  to  a  stubborn  mind." 
Then  through  the  keyhole  to  her  son  she  cried 
"Goodnight,  my  son."    None  answered  from  inside. 

Then,  when  the  morning  came,  they  knocked  the  door, 
"John,  will  you  go?",  they  asked.    No  answer  came. 
One  said,  "I  see  him  lying  on  the  floor. 
He  is  asleep  or  playing  at  some  game, 
Come,  Master  John,  don't  treat  our  lady  so. 
Look,  here  are  eggs,  be  good  and  say  you'll  go." 

No  answer  came,  so  then  they  craned,  and  peered 
Into  the  keyhole  at  the  room  beyond. 
"Pray  God,"  said  one,  "It  be  not  as  I  feared, 
A  lad  so  proud  should  never  be  in  bond. 
He  had  his  Indian  lance-head  on  the  shelf. 
John,  Master  John.    He  may  have  killed  himself. 

John,  God,  he  has.    He's  lying  on  the  floor, 

Look,  there's  his  body.    Fetch  the  crowbars  here. 

Yes,  he  is  dead,  God  help  us;  burst  the  door, 

Run  for  a  doctor,  one.    A  dear,  a  dear, 

He  was  the  likeliest  lad  there  ever  was. 

Now,  Ramon,  heave.    Now  Martin,  now  Tomas. 

Heave."    So  they  hove  and  entered  with  the  heave; 
What  they  had  thought  was  John  was  but  a  pile 
Of  clothing,  rolled  to  man's  shape  to  deceive. 
John  was  not  there,  he  had  been  gone  awhile. 

[500] 


ROSAS 

His  bed  was  cold,  a  pencilled  letter  lay 
There  on  his  ciothes,  but  John  had  run  away. 

"Dear  Mother,"  said  the  letter,  "You  and  I, 
With  different  souls  must  live  by  different  laws. 
I  give  back  all  you  gave  me,  now  goodbye. 
If  I  go  naked  hence,  you  know  the  cause. 
I  keep  my  father's  name.    When  I  am  gone 
I  shall  be  gone  forever.    I  am,  John." 

He  had  gone  naked  into  the  night  air. 

He  and  his  Mother  never  met  again. 

He  wandered  southwards,  many  leagues  from  there, 

Past  the  last  ranches  to  the  Indian  plain, 

South  to  the  ranges  where  the  spirits  brood, 

To  daunt  wild  horses  for  his  livelihood. 


There  on  the  ranges  with  a  half-wild  crew 

Of  Gauchos,  cut-throats,  thieves,  and  broken  rakes 

He  caught  and  broke  wild  horses.    There  he  knew 

Death  as  the  bloody  pay  of  all  mistakes. 

There,  in  the  Indian  forays  he  was  bred 

To  capture  colts  and  squaws  and  scalp  the  dead. 

There  he  got  strength  and  skill,  till  all  men  there, 
Even  the  Indians,  spoke  of  him  as  fey. 
He  beat  the  unbacked  stallion  from  his  mare, 
And  mounted  him,  and  made  the  beast  obey. 
And  bitted  him  and  broke,  and  rode  him  home 
Tame  as  a  gelding,  staring,  white  with  foam. 


ROSAS 

There  was  no  horse  so  wild  he  could  not  break  him 
By  hands  and  one  small  thong;  no  Gaucho  brave 
Wrestling  him  naked,  knee  to  knee,  could  shake  him, 
Or  in  the  knife  game  give  him  what  he  gave, 
Or  in  the  midnight's  thundering  cattle  hunt 
Pass  the  mad  herd,  like  him,  to  turn  their  front. 

But  most  of  all,  men  saw  him  take  the  lead 
In  war  time,  when  the  Indian  tribes  were  out; 
Then  he  paid  bloody  threat  by  bloody  deed, 
And  many  a  painted  Indian  in  his  clout 
Swung  from  the  oak-tree  branches  at  his  order. 
The  forays  ended  while  he  kept  the  Border. 

Then,  when  the  March  was  quiet,  he  became 
A  rancher  there,  and  wed,  and  gat  a  child, 
A  little  girl,  (Manuela  was  her  name). 
Then,  as  the  darling  of  that  frontier  wild, 
He  moved  and  ruled  and  glittered  and  was  grim 
Among  the  Gaucho  troops  who  worshipped  him. 

There  was  a  little  child  (an  old  man  now) 
Who  saw  him  pass  once  in  those  Indian  days, 
"  Lean,  quick  and  cruel,  with  a  panther-brow 
And  wandering  eyes  that  glittered  to  a  blaze, 
Eyes  of  a  madman,  yet  you  knew  him  then 
The  one  man  there,  a  natural  king  of  men." 

And  cantering  with  him  rode  the  frontier  band 
Whooping  and  swearing  as  they  plied  the  quirt, 
The  thousand  rake-hells  of  the  South  Command 
With  tossing  bit-cups  bright  and  flying  dirt 
[502! 


ROSAS 

And  Rosas  far  in  front;  his  long  red  cloak 
Streaming  like  flame  before  the  thunder  stroke. 


There  were  two  parties  in  that  distant  state, 

The  Whites  and  Reds,  who,  for  long  years,  had  filled 

The  lives  of  all  the  country  with  their  hate, 

The  graves  of  all  their  churchyards  with  their  killed. 

There  was  no  White  or  Red  with  hands  not  brued 

Or  smutched  in  blood  in  that  old  party  feud. 

This  feud  made  havoc  in  the  land;  yet  still 
Stopped  at  the  ranges  where  Lord  Rosas  rode, 
There  the  wild  Indians  were  enough  to  kill, 
Christians  were  friends,  men  held  the  common  code, 
"Death  to  the  Indians  ";  but  within  the  pale 
Red  against  White  made  murder  an  old  tale. 

And  in  the  city  where  the  Senate  sat 

So  violent  this  bloody  quarrel  was 

That  men  stole  to  their  business  like  the  cat 

By  silent  streets  where  pavements  sprouted  grass, 

And  at  the  corners  crouched  with  stealthy  eyes, 

Peered,  and  drew  back,  or  flashed  upon  their  prize. 

This  state  of  daily  murder,  nightly  plot, 
Killing  and  burning  of  the  White  and  Red, 
Lasted  three  years,  till  in  the  land  was  not 
One  home  of  man  without  some  victim  dead; 
Then,  in  the  guilty  Senate,  someone  sane 
Cried,  "Whites  and  Reds,  let  us  have  peace  again. 
[503] 


ROSAS 

This  quarrel  makes  us  beasts  in  the  world's  eyes, 
Anarchs  and  worse.    O  let  this  murder  end, 
Before  God  smites  us  down  to  make  us  wise, 
Let  us  forget  our  pride  and  condescend; 
Forget  the  past,  and  let  some  leader  make 
Order  among  us  for  the  great  God's  sake." 

Then  someone  said,  "What  leader?    What  man  here 
Could  both  sides  trust?    All  here  are  Red  or  White. 
This  bloodshed  will  go  on  another  year, 
Or  ten  more  years,  until  we  Reds  requite 
Some  of  our  wrongs,  until  the  Whites  restore 
Their  bloodied  spoils;  then  peace  comes;  not  before." 

Then  there  was  tumult;  but  the  first  took  heart, 
And  spoke  again,  "We  are  all  sick  with  blood. 
Let  be  old  sins  and  spoilings.    Let  us  start 
Another  page.    Have  done  with  flinging  mud. 
Bury  the  wicked  past.    Let  both  sides  strive, 
Since  both  sides  care,  to  save  this  land  alive." 

Then  an  old  White  began:  "We  Whites  have  striven 

Against  injustice;  not  for  lust  of  gain. 

You  Reds  no  less.    Now  in  the  name  of  Heaven 

Let  not  our  fellow  sufferer  plead  in  vain. 

Life  makes  us  neither  Red  nor  White,  but  men 

Self-bound  in  hell.    Let  wisdom  free  us  then?" 

Then  the  first  speaker  answered,  "It  is  clear, 
Since  this  great  city  is  so  racked  with  feud, 
And  we  so  stained  with  blood,  that  no  one  here 
Can  bring  back  quiet  to  the  multitude. 
Iso4] 


ROSAS 

All  here  have  taken  part.    Peace  cannot  come 
But  by  pure  hands,  into  this  devildom. 

What  I  propose  is,  that  we  straightway  call 
Young  General  Rosas  and  the  South  Command 
(Men  of  no  clique,  but  trusted  soldiers  all) 
Here  to  make  peace,  that  so  this  groaning  land 
May,  with  the  help  of  one  whom  all  can  trust, 
Finish  with  feud  and  rise  up  from  the  dust." 

There  was  much  talking,  but  since  all  were  tired 

Of  murder  in  the  streets,  and  no  way  shewed 

Save  this,  to  bring  the  quiet  long-desired, 

It  was  decreed;  and  so  a  horseman  rode 

To  summon  Rosas  north.    It  was  not  long 

Ere  Rosas  came,  with  troops,  a  thousand  strong. 

Then  Rosas  wrote  to  tell  them:  "I  have  come, 
I  and  my  men,  obeying  your  request; 
I  shall  remain  until  the  morning  drum, 
Then  I  go  back,  unless  your  House  invest 
Me  with  the  absolute  command,  to  deal 
As  I  think  fit  to  save  the  Commonweal." 

Much  as  they  longed  for  peace,  this  bid  for  power 
Startled  the  House;  they  cavilled;  they  demurred. 
At  dawn  Lord  Rosas  wrote:  "In  one  more  hour 
I  return  South,  so  send  me  instant  word." 
"It  makes  him  King,"  they  thought,  yet  in  their  lust 
For  party  vengeance,  all  agreed  they  must. 
[505] 


ROSAS 

So,  with  both  parties  hoping  for  the  lives 

Of  all  their  foes,  through  Rosas,  there  was  calm, 

And  Reds  and  Whites  both  went  to  whet  their  knives, 

Licking  their  lips  for  blood.    Without  a  qualm 

The  Senate  voted,  "Let  it  be  agreed 

That  Rosas  come";  and  so  it  was  decreed. 

So  Rosas  entered  in  and  took  command 
And  ruled  the  city  to  a  Roman  peace. 
For  three  long  days  the  cut-throats  in  his  band 
Killed  at  his  nod,  and  when  he  bade  them  cease 
The  town  was  tame,  for  those  who  could  not  flee 
Were  killed  or  crushed.    "I  rule  henceforth,"  said  he. 


So  Rosas  came  to  power.    Soon  his  hold 
Gripped  the  whole  land  as  though  it  were  a  horse. 
Church,  Money,  Law,  all  yielded.    He  controlled 
That  land's  wild  passions  with  his  wilder  force. 
And  through  their  tears  men  heard  from  time  to  time 
His  slaves  at  worship  of  his  clever  crime. 

And  if  the  city,  terrified  to  awe, 
Loathed  him,  as  slaves  their  masters,  he  was  still 
The  Gaucho's  darling  captain;  he  could  draw 
Their  hearts  at  pleasure  with  his  horseman's  skill. 
None  ever  rode  like  Rosas;  none  but  he 
Could  speak  their  slang  or  knew  their  mystery. 

So  that,  in  all  his  bloodiest  days,  a  crowd 
Of  Gauchos  hung  about  his  palace-gate, 
And  when  he  went  or  came  they  shouted  loud 
"Long  life  to  Captain  Rosas."    They  would  wait 

[506] 


ROSAS 

For  hours  to  catch  his  nod.    Their  patient  rags 
Were  brighter  to  his  soul  than  flowers  or  flags. 

And  with  this  Gaucho  power  he  ruled  his  slaves 
By  death  alone;  within  his  audience  halls 
Stretched  end  to  end  on  Indian  lances'  staves, 
Were  long  red  streamers  propped  against  the  walls 
Crowned  by  these  words  "Death  to  the  Whites";  but  he 
Dealt  death  to  Reds  and  Whites  impartially. 

Death  was  his  god,  his  sword,  his  creed  of  power, 
Death  was  his  pleasure,  for  he  took  delight 
To  make  his  wife  and  daughter  shrink  and  cower 
By  tales  of  murder  wreaked  on  Red  or  White, 
And  while  these  women  trembled  and  turned  pale, 
He  shrieked  with  laughter  at  the  witty  tale. 

Those  two  alone  could  counter  Rosas'  will; 
His  wife  and  daughter;  they  could  bend  his  mind 
To  mercy  (sometimes)  from  a  purposed  ill; 
So,  when  his  heart  some  bloody  deed  designed, 
With  merry  cunning  he  would  order  one 
To  jail  those  women  till  the  deed  was  done. 

He  had  one  jest,  which  was,  to  bid  to  feast 
Someone  most  staid,  some  bishop  without  speck. 
Some  city-lord,  some  widow-soothing  priest. 
And  then  to  drop  red  fire-ants  down  his  neck; 
Then,  as  his  victim  flinched  and  tried  to  hide 
His  pains,  Lord  Rosas  laughed  until  he  cried. 

[507] 


ROSAS 

He  held  no  Council;  but  a  Gaucho  fool, 
Dressed  like  a  British  general,  played  the  clown 
About  the  palace,  and  was  used  to  rule, 
Vice-regent  for  him,  when  he  left  the  town. 
No  other  colleague  had  he,  but  at  hand 
He  kept  some  twelve,  his  chosen  murder-band. 

These  twelve  were  picked  young  nobles,  choicely  bred, 
Sworn  in  a  gang,  the  Thugs  or  Gallowsbirds, 
A  club  of  Death,  of  which  he  was  the  head, 
That  saved  the  State  great  cost  in  lawyer's  words; 
Writs,  prosecutions,  bails,  defences,  pleas, 
Were  over-ruled  by  judges  such  as  these. 

For,  if  he  wished  a  person  killed,  he  bade 
The  victim  and  the  chosen  murderer  dine 
In  palace  with  him,  while  the  minstrels  played, 
And  he  was  host  and  joked  and  passed  the  wine, 
And  at  the  midnight  he  would  see  them  start 
Like  friends  for  home,  and  all  the  time  the  cart 

Stood  waiting  for  the  corpse  at  the  street-end. 
And  then  the  murderer,  warming  to  his  man 
In  the  dark  alley's  chill,  would  say,  "My  friend, 
I  love  this  talk,"  and  then  would  jerk  a  span 
Of  knife  into  his  throat  and  leave  him  dead; 
Then  tell  the  dead-cart-gang  and  go  to  bed. 

Thus  Rosas  ruled;  yet  still,  he  feared  the  Church 
That  outlasts  men,  so,  on  a  day,  he  cried 
"Martin,  our  patron  Saint,  shall  quit  his  perch; 
No  dirty  foreign  saint  shall  be  our  guide. 

[508] 


ROSAS 

Priests  of  those  churches  which  have  Martin's  head 
Over  their  altars,  shall  put  mine  instead." 

This  the  priests  did,  with  many  a  pious  phrase 
About  obedience.    When  the  deed  was  done 
His  haters  gave  up  hope.    They  could  not  raise 
Any  rebellion  against  such  an  one. 
He  was  like  god,  a  prying  god,  who  saw 
Even  in  their  souls  the  breakers  of  his  law. 

The  terror  of  his  rule  hung  like  a  ghost 
Thirsty  for  blood,  about  men's  haunted  minds, 
Those  who  dared  whisper  what  they  felt  were  lost; 
He  ground  their  fortunes  as  the  miller  grinds; 
And  in  their  hate  men  heard  the  Gauchos  sing 
"God-given  Rosas  is  indeed  a  king." 


There  was  a  soldier  in  the  city  there, 
Colonel  O'Gorman,  with  an  only  child, 
A  girl,  Camilla,  worshipped  everywhere 
For  merry  sweet  young  beauty  dear  and  wild. 
So  dear  and  merry  she  was  like  the  sun 
Shining  and  bringing  life  to  everyone. 

And  in  the  Bishop's  house,  there  lived  a  priest, 
The  Chaplain  Laurence,  who  was  sick  with  shame 
At  all  his  Church's  sitting  at  the  feast 
With  bloody-handed  men  who  went  and  came 
Unchecked,  unbraved,  condoned;  he  longed  to  break 
With  such  a  Church,  for  his  religion's  sake. 
[509] 


ROSAS 

But,  being  bent,  by  training,  to  obey, 

And  having  hope  and  an  appointed  task, 

He  held  his  tongue,  and  wrought,  and  went  his  way, 

And  hid  his  weary  heart  behind  a  mask, 

Though  it  was  hard.    As  City  Chaplain  he 

Was  widely  known  throughout  the  Bishop's  see. 

And  being  fond  of  music,  it  so  fell 

That  he  and  that  Camilla  sometimes  met 

In  quires  and  singing  places;  ah,  too  well 

For  those  two  souls  their  red  and  white  was  set. 

For  love  went  winging  through  their  hearts,  and  then 

What  else  could  matter  in  this  world  of  men? 

They  became  lovers,  but  by  secret  ways, 
With  single  words,  with  looks,  in  public  rooms, 
Among  a  world  of  spies,  in  a  great  blaze, 
They  hid  this  splendid  secret  of  their  dooms. 
Often  a  week  of  longing  had  to  end 
Without  one  word  or  look  from  friend  to  friend. 

So  months  of  passionate  trouble  passed  them  by 

Making  them  happy  with  intensest  pain 

That  brought  them  down  all  heaven  from  the  sky 

And  by  sharp  travail  made  them  born  again. 

Could  they  but  speak,  their  passionate  souls  made  blind 

Trod  the  high  stars  in  the  eternal  mind. 

Till,  in  the  Spring,  Camilla's  father  planned 
To  take  Camilla  to  the  country,  there 
(So  he  informed  her)  he  would  plight  her  hand 
To  young  Lord  Charles,  his  neighbour's  son  and  heir; 

[510] 


ROSAS 

"For  it  is  time,  my  dear,  that  you  should  wed 
One  like  Don  Charles,  a  friend  and  lord,"  he  said. 

Yet,  seeing  white  dismay  upon  her  face, 

He  said,  "Be  calm;  the  wedding  cannot  be 

For  some  weeks  more;  you  have  a  little  grace, 

But  still,  to-morrow  you  must  start  with  me, 

For  you  must  meet  Lord  Charles,  and  come  to  know 

Your  luck,  dear  child,  that  you  should  marry  so." 

All  through  that  day  she  entertained  the  guests; 
All  through  the  evening,  as  her  father's  slave, 
She  sang  and  played;  but  when  men  sought  their  rests, 
Even  as  the  thin  ghost  treads  the  church's  nave, 
She  crept  out  of  the  house  to  tell  her  man, 
Laurence,  her  loved  one,  of  her  father's  plan. 

She  reached  the  Bishop's  house  in  the  dead  night. 
Far  off,  the  dogs  barked;  then  a  noise  of  bells 
Chimed,  and  the  abbey  quire  shewed  a  light 
Where  sleepy  monk  to  monk  the  office  tells. 
Lorenzo's  lamp  still  burned;  he  paced  his  room; 
His  shadow  like  a  great  bat  flitted  gloom. 

There  she  stood  crouched.    Two  drunken  friends  went  by 

Singing,  "I  feel  inclined."    She  drew  her  breath. 

All  the  bright  stars  were  merry  in  the  sky. 

She  called  to  Laurence,  then,  as  white  as  death, 

She  yearned  and  prayed.    His  feet  upon  the  stair 

Creaked,  a  bolt  clocked  and  then  her  man  was  there. 


ROSAS 

She  told  her  tale  (a  bitter  tale  to  both), 
Then  Laurence  said,  "Since  it  has  come  to  this, 
This  must  decide  me,  and  my  priestly  oath 
Must  now  be  broken.    I  have  done  amiss 
Loving  you  thus  in  secret;  now  our  sin 
Must  front  the  world;  a  new  time  must  begin. 

I  have  long  known  that  such  a  break  would  come. 
I  cannot  longer  serve  this  Church  of  ours, 
That  sees  red  crime  committed  and  is  dumb, 
And  strows  an  atheist's  path  with  holy  flowers. 
We  two  will  fly,  to  start  another  life 
Far  from  this  wicked  town,  as  man  and  wife. 

And  if  the  life  be  hard,  it  still  will  be 

A  life  together,  and  our  own,  and  all 

That  life  can  offer  me  is  you  with  me. 

If  you  are  with  me,  let  what  may  befall." 

"I,  too,  say  that,"  Camilla  said,  "Where  two 

Love  to  the  depths,  what  evil  can  men  do?" 

They  looked  a  long  look  in  each  other's  eyes; 
Then  hand  in  hand  they  put  aside  the  past, 
Father,  and  priestly  vows;  for  love  is  wise, 
Love  plays  for  life,  love  stakes  upon  the  cast, 
Love  is  both  blind  and  brave,  love  only  knows 
Beauty  in  the  night  a  little  flame  that  blows. 

When  the  great  gates  were  opened,  and  the  carts 
Set  out  upon  the  road,  those  two  were  there 
Bound  for  the  West  with  quiet  in  their  hearts. 
The  beauty  on  them  made  the  carters  stare. 
[5*2] 


ROSAS 

There  in  the  West  they  taught  a  little  school; 
And  she  was  glad,  poor  soul,  and  he,  poor  fool. 


This  flight,  being  known,  amused  the  town  awhile. 

Camilla's  father  raged  and  begged  that  both 

Might  be  arraigned,  she  for  unfilial  guile, 

He  for  the  breaking  of  his  priestly  oath. 

The  Bishop  sighed,  Lord  Rosas  laughed,  and  soon 

The  interest  died;  it  did  not  live  a  moon. 

But  in  a  neighbouring  state  some  men  there  were, 

Exiled  by  Rosas,  or  his  refugees, 

Who,  safe  but  starving,  lived  and  plotted  there, 

Losing  no  chance  of  working  him  disease; 

These  heard  the  tale  and  in  their  hate  they  cried 

"Here  is  a  weapon  that  shall  bate  his  pride." 

So,  in  a  journal  printed  at  their  cost, 
They  wrote,  how  public  morals  had  decayed 
Since  Rosas  came,  how  the  land's  soul  was  lost, 
"Witness  this  priest  who  has  seduced  a  maid, 
Child  of  a  noble,  yet  is  not  pursued, 
Punished  nor  chid  by  lord  or  multitude. 

This,  (so  they  wrote)  is  only  due  to  him 
Whose  bloody  rule  defiles  the  suffering  land; 
By  his  example  is  our  honour  dim, 
Church,  maiden  virtue,  nothing,  can  withstand 
His  power  for  evil.    By  this  single  crime 
The  world  will  know  us  rotting  in  our  slime." 


ROSAS 

This,  being  read,  was  quoted  far  and  wide 

In  many  lands,  with  many  details  more 

Of  this  rebelling  chaplain  and  his  bride, 

"Lord  Rosas'  shame,  the  country's  running  sore," 

Till,  having  walked  the  world,  the  story  came 

Back  to  Lord  Rosas  like  a  ravening  flame. 

He,  who  had  laughed  to  hear  it,  foamed  with  rage 

To  see  it  counted  as  his  own  disgrace; 

But,  having  read  it  through,  he  turned  the  page, 

Sighed,  as  though  sad,  and  with  a  smiling  face 

Called  on  the  Bishop  with  a  gift  of  gold 

"For  orphan  babes,  the  lamblings  of  your  fold." 

And,  as  his  way  was  when  he  chose,  his  talk 
Was  sweet  and  gentle,  and  the  Bishop  shewed 
His  English  lilies  flowering  in  the  walk, 
Which  Rosas  praised:  the  Bishop  overflowed 
With  holy  joy  when  Rosas  deigned  to  say 
"O,  that  our  souls  might  be  as  white  as  they." 

Then,  after  vespers,  when  his  coach  was  called 
Lord  Rosas  said,  "About  this  erring  priest 
Your  chaplain  Laurence;  you  are  doubtless  galled, 
Nay,  deeply  pained;  but  men  will  soon  have  ceased 
To  mock  about  it;  for  itself,  let  be — 
But  they  are  both  so  young,  it  touches  me. 

You  liked  the  lad?"    "All  like  him."    "And  the  girl?" 
"All  loved  Camilla."    "Could  not  two  old  friends 
Help  two  young  souls  whose  hearts  are  in  a  whirl  ? 
Their  future  lives  may  make  complete  amends 


ROSAS 

For  any  error  now,  if  you  and  I 

Help  them  in  this  their  trouble.    Shall  we  try?" 

The  Bishop  said,  that  he  was  deeply  touched 
To  hear  such  Christian  words,  that  he  would  strive 
To  reach  these  children  whom  mistakes  had  smutched, 
"To  bring  them  peace  and  save  their  souls  alive." 
"I,  too,  will  strive,"  said  Rosas;  "let  us  learn 
First,  where  they  are,  and  urge  them  to  return. 

Now  that  their  first  hour's  madness  must  be  over 
They  must  a  little  crave  for  what  was  life 
Before  their  fall,  and  hunger  to  recover 
Comrade  or  friend,  even  as  man  and  wife. 
Who  were  your  chaplain's  friends  before  the  fall?" 
"A  priest,"  the  Bishop  said,  "from  Donegal. 

The  priest  Concannon  was  Lorenzo's  friend; 

He  may  have  heard  where  they  have  pitched  their  tent; 

He  lodges  in  the  parish:  shall  I  send?" 

"No,  I  will  write,"  said  Rosas;  so  he  went 

Home  to  his  palace,  and  in  little  space 

Concannon  was  before  him  face  to  face. 

And  what  with  wine  and  flattery  and  deceit 
He  turned  Concannon's  head  and  made  him  tell 
The  name  of  those  young  runaways'  retreat 
Where  they  taught  school  beneath  the  Mission  bell. 
Lord  Rosas  said,  "When  they  return  to  town 
We  two  will  back  them  till  they  live  it  down." 


ROSAS 

So  thinking  that  the  pair  were  now  forgiven, 
But  for  some  penance  and  a  reprimand, 
Concannon  left  him,  giving  thanks  to  heaven 
That  mercy's  spirit  governed  in  the  land. 
"They  will  return,"  he  said,  "and  wed,  and  make 
Amends  for  all  this  passion  of  mistake." 

But  when  he  left,  Lord  Rosas  called  his  guard 
To  gaol  his  daughter;  then,  when  she  was  fast, 
He  sent  a  troop  of  lancers  riding  hard 
To  seize  those  lovers;  ere  the  night  was  past 
Those  two  poor  souls  on  whom  the  world  had  risen 
Were  chained  like  thieves  and  carted  to  a  prison. 

But  there  their  guardian,  seeing  their  estate, 
Two  gently  nurtured  souls  of  no  proved  crime, 
Knocked  off  their  irons,  and  let  women  wait 
On  poor  Camilla  who  was  near  her  time. 
He  lent  her  music,  and  with  fruit  and  flowers 
And  pleasant  talk  amused  some  bitter  hours. 

But  in  the  midnight,  as  he  slept,  there  came 
A  man  from  Rosas,  with  a  sealed  command 
Which  ran,  "Take  out  those  lovers  without  shame, 
Before  the  dawn,  and  shoot  them  out  of  hand. 
This  is  your  warrant.    Rosas."    This  he  read 
Shocked  to  the  heart,  but  tumbling  from  his  bed 

He  called  his  men  to  change  the  courier's  horse, 
Then  risking  place  and  life,  he  wrote  to  say 
"I  have  your  Lordship's  order,  but  perforce 
Wait  confirmation,  ere  I  can  obey. 


ROSAS 

These  two  are  boy  and  girl:    You  cannot  mean 
To  kill  these  two,  whatever  they  have  been." 

He  sent  this  letter  to  his  lord,  and  then 
Took  horse  himself,  because  he  hoped  to  plead 
With  Rosas'  daughter,  for  full  many  men 
Had  wrought  that  gentle  soul  to  intercede 
For  them,  in  trouble;  but  he  rode  in  vain; 
She  was  imprisoned  and  he  lost  his  pain. 

But  writing  down  his  news,  he  bribed  her  guard 
To  carry  it  to  her;  they  took  the  bribe, 
Then  tore  his  note  and  flung  it  in  the  yard 
Under  his  eyes,  and  mocked  him  with  a  gibe. 
"No  messages  will  go  to  her,"  they  said, 
"Until  your  friend,  the  dirty  White,  is  dead." 

When  this  had  failed,  he  bribed  a  man  to  bear 
A  letter  to  Lord  Rosas  in  his  room, 
Pleading  Camilla's  state.    To  his  despair 
The  answer  came,  "Baptise  the  woman's  womb; 
Let  her  drink  holy  water  and  then  die. 
Shoot  them  at  dawn,  or  hang  for  mutiny." 

One  of  the  Stranglers  Gang,  who  once  had  known 
Camilla's  father,  brought  this  final  word, 
Adding,  "Be  wise;  let  sleeping  dogs  alone. 
Do  as  he  bids,  for  it  would  be  absurd 
To  disobey,  it  could  not  save  the  two, 
Even  for  a  day,  and  he  would  murder  you." 


ROSAS 

So,  giving  up  all  hope,  he  took  his  horse; 

But,  as  he  rode,  another  scheme  seemed  fair, 

"Even  now,"  he  said,  "things  need  not  take  their  course; 

Her  father  may  appeal,"  but  coming  there 

He  found  her  father  gone,  two  days  before, 

To  France  (they  told  him)  to  return  no  more. 

He  turned  away,  but  then,  one  other  chance 
Remained,  to  beg  the  Bishop  to  appeal; 
But  some  great  suit  of  church  inheritance 
Had  taken  him  from  town.    The  whetted  steel 
Wanted  its  blood.    "So  they  must  die,"  he  cried. 
And  as  he  rode  he  felt  death  run  beside. 

So,  in  the  dawn,  the  drummers  beat  the  call, 
And  those  poor  children,  wakened  to  be  killed, 
Were  taken  out  and  placed  against  a  wall 
Facing  the  soldiers;  then  the  bell  was  stilled 
That  had  been  tolling,  and  a  minute's  space 
Was  given  for  their  farewells  and  last  embrace. 

And  Laurence  said,  "Camilla,  we  shall  be 
In  death  together.    In  some  other  life, 
If  not  in  this,  dear,  you  will  be  with  me. 

0  my  sweet  soul,  O  my  beloved  wife, 

You  come  to  this  through  me.    O  my  sweet  friend, 
My  love  has  brought  you  to  this  shameful  end." 

"Not  shameful,"  said  Camilla,  "All  I  did 

1  have  done  proudly.    As  I  have  begun, 
So  let  me  end.    What  human  laws  forbid 
By  love's  intenser  canon  we  have  done. 


ROSAS 

Let  love's  intenser  purpose  heal  the  smart 
At  having  done  with  this  poor  timorous  heart. 

I  would  have  loved  this  little  child  in  me 
To  suck  my  breast  and  clap  its  little  hands, 
And  rest  its  little  body  on  my  knee, 
And  be  like  you;  but  now  the  running  sands 
Come  to  an  end,  and  we  must  die,  my  own. 
So  be  it;  we  have  loved  unto  the  bone." 

Then  hand  in  hand  they  faced  the  firing  squad 
Who  shot  them  dead  into  their  waiting  graves, 
Love  for  each  other  was  all  the  wealth  they  had, 
Love  that  atones,  the  steady  star  that  saves, 
Love  that,  when  shattering  bullets  broke  them  blind, 
Lit  them  a  path  and  linked  them  mind  to  mind. 


When  the  dog's  pity  of  their  death  was  told, 
Lord  Rosas  straight  proclaimed,  "I  have  upheld 
This  country's  morals,  as  I  shall  uphold. 
There  they  lie  dead,  those  wicked  who  rebelled. 
I  have  made  pure  the  country's  spotted  fame." 
The  country  read  the  story  and  was  tame. 

But  man  by  man,  they  crept  out  of  the  land 
Day  after  day,  till  there  were  thousands  fled 
Who  in  their  exile,  swore  them  to  a  band 
Not  to  return  save  over  Rosas  dead. 
Though  they  lodged  earthen  like  the  naked  worm 
This  tale  of  those  poor  lovers  kept  them  firm. 


ROSAS 

Thousands  they  were  and  daily  they  increased 
With  arms  and  faith,  until  their  multitude 
Fell  on  Lord  Rosas  as  the  supping  east 
Falls  on  the  barrens  where  the  spirits  brood. 
They  came  resolved  to  kill  him  or  to  die, 
"Remember  those  poor  lovers,"  was  their  cry. 

When  Rosas  heard  their  clamour  he  prepared 
His  Gaucho  lancers.     From  a  rolling  hill 
Outside  the  city,  all  the  plain  lies  bared, 
Cornfields,  and  waters  turning  many  a  mill, 
Cities  and  woodlands,  and  a  distance  dim; 
There  Rosas  watched  his  Gauchos  fight  for  him. 

But  from  the  sworn  attackers  came  a  shout 

"  Remember  those  poor  lovers,"  and  their  charge 

Scattered  the  Gaucho  lancers  in  a  rout, 

And  chased  their  remnants  to  the  river  marge. 

Then  Rosas  turned  his  horse  and  rode  alone 

To  some  mean  dockyard  where  he  was  not  known. 

There,  casting  loose  his  horse,  he  bought  a  coat 
Fit  for  a  sailor,  and  in  this  new  dress 
Shipped  as  a  seaman  in  a  cargo-boat 
Then  leaving  port,  for  England,  as  I  guess. 
There  on  her  deck  that  night  he  took  his  stand 
And  looked  his  last  upon  his  native  land. 

He  died  in  England  many  a  year  ago; 
His  daughter,  too;  both  lie  in  English  soil. 
They  say  that  great  moon-daisies  love  to  grow 
Over  Camilla,  and  with  loving  toil 


ROSAS 

Soldiers  who  drill  there  train  the  rose-tree  boughs 
Over  the  daisies  on  their  narrow  house. 

A  white  rose  on  Camilla  and  a  red 
Over  Don  Laurence,  and  the  branches  meet 
Mingling  their  many  blossoms  overhead 
Drawing  the  bees,  and  when  the  sun  is  sweet 
In  April  there,  the  little  children  lay 
"Gifts  for  the  pretty  lovers"  on  the  clay. 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


in      7, 


<tO60      Jt/tK/4*V 


A     000  143  496     8 


